


Make It Good

by JustLookFrightenedAndScuttle



Series: How Hard Could It Be? [2]
Category: Check Please! (Webcomic)
Genre: Jack didn't go to Samwell, M/M, NHL!Jack, gratuitous amounts of responsible adulting - Freeform, quarantine au
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-14
Updated: 2020-07-22
Packaged: 2021-03-03 19:09:08
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 12
Words: 27,868
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24720586
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JustLookFrightenedAndScuttle/pseuds/JustLookFrightenedAndScuttle
Summary: This probably won't make much sense if you don't read thefirst part.Also, no one should take this as evidence that moving in with someone during this pandemic is a good idea in reality.
Relationships: Eric "Bitty" Bittle/Jack Zimmermann
Series: How Hard Could It Be? [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1767256
Comments: 477
Kudos: 517





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This probably won't make much sense if you don't read the [first part](https://archiveofourown.org/works/24049111/chapters/57870454).
> 
> Also, no one should take this as evidence that moving in with someone during this pandemic is a good idea in reality.

“Come on, Jack, answer.”

Bitty heard the ringing change to the mechanical voice reading the phone number and telling him to leave a message.

He hung up and looked at the time. Just after eight. It was a couple of hours earlier than he usually called Jack, but he knew Jack should be up.

Probably he was doing his morning exercise routine. Even with the return to conditioning in the team facilities, players were still doing a lot of it at home because of restrictions on how many people could be in the gym at one time.

 _Call me when you get this,_ Bitty texted. He hoped Jack would call before he showered and dressed and had breakfast.

 _It’s important,_ Bitty added.

There was nothing more he could do, so he went back to the kitchen and got butter from the fridge. He could leave a couple of sticks to soften for cookies and cube the rest into flour for a pie crust.

MooMaw brought her coffee cup in from the porch. 

“Baking already? What did Jack say?”

“I didn’t talk to Jack,” Bitty said, concentrating on measuring salt into the flour.

“You’re going to move back with your mother and daddy then?” MooMaw asked. “That’s what you’re trying to work yourself up to do?”

“What? No,” Bitty said, starting on the butter. “Jack didn’t answer. Probably working out. But if he doesn’t want me, I’ll try Shitty and Lardo. If things are opening up again, it’s time for me to move on.”

“Move on from here?”

“From Georgia, with my life, all of it,” Bitty said.

“You don’t have to leave,” MooMaw said. “I can tell Connie I don’t have room.”

“Nah,” Bitty said. “She needs a place. And she wants to stay here. Even if I didn’t have somewhere to go, I could take the sofa. And I have a room with Mama and Coach.”

“Have you talked to them?” MooMaw asked.

Bitty shook his head. “Not yet. I want to have a plan first.”

His phone buzzed on the table, he wiped his hands on a dish towel. 

“It’s Jack,” he said. “I’ll just go …”

“Front porch is open,” MooMaw said, picking up the bowl with the beginnings of his pie crust. “I’ll just stick this in the Frigidaire until you’re ready to get back to it.”

“Hey, Jack,” Bitty said, answering the call as he pushed the screen door open.

“Bittle?” Jack said. “Are you alright? Is your grandmother alright?”

“Yeah, I’m fine,” Bitty said. “I promise. It’s just, my Aunt Connie lost her job. The restaurant she managed in Atlanta announced it’s closing for good.”

“That’s too bad,” Jack said. “But -- and I don’t mean to be insensitive -- why did you need to call me at eight o’clock in the morning to tell me?”

“Because she called MooMaw last night and asked if she could move in here,” Bitty said. “When her lease is up at the end of the month.”

“Okay,” Jack said.

“And the guest room I’ve been sleeping in will become Aunt Connie’s room,” Bitty said. “And I know we talked about, well, me moving back north and maybe staying with you, but I thought that might be more of a ‘maybe someday’ kind of thing and not a ‘I need a place to stay next month’ kind of thing, and if it is that’s totally fine,” Bitty said. “I get it, we barely know each other, we’ve never met in person, and even if we like each other it’s way too much to ask with our relationship being what it is, if you can call it a relationship at all, and --”

“Bittle,” Jack said.

“Mama would be happy to have me back at home with her, and maybe Shitty and Lardo could help me find a place to share in Boston, and MooMaw said she’d tell Connie the room was taken if I wanted her to, but it’s the room Connie grew up in and after working through the whole shut-down, now the place closes because people aren’t coming back in droves? And she’s nearly 60, and she doesn’t know how she’s gonna find a new job --”

“Bittle.”

“Sorry,” Bitty said. “I’m rambling. I just wanted to know before Mama hears the news about Aunt Connie today. She’ll be thrilled about me coming home, and I want to stop that train before it starts if it’s not gonna happen.”

Jack was silent for a moment before saying, “Is that what you want, to stay in Georgia with your family?”

“Not really,” Bitty said. “I mean, maybe for a little while? Like a week or two? But not another three or four months. I’ve liked spending time with MooMaw, and my parents and I -- it’s gotten better, y’know? -- but I don’t think this is where I want to spend the rest of my life. But I know that’s my problem, not yours.”

“Do you not want to stay with me?” Jack said. “I’ve got plenty of room.”

“I know, sweetpea, but I don’t want to put you on the spot,” Bitty said. “I mean, this isn’t like an old-fashioned arranged marriage or something where the first time we lay eyes on each other is the first day we … you know.”

“Just because you stay here doesn’t mean we have to sleep together,” Jack said. “I have had houseguests before without that, eh?”

Bitty snickered in spite of himself.

“You don’t think it would be bad for us?” Bitty asked. “I mean, like _us_ us, like making us hate each other because we’re stuck together, or making us put up with things we don’t like because we don’t want to cause problems?”

“I don’t know,” Jack said. “I’ve never lived with someone I was in a relationship with.”

“And we’d have to be careful anyway,” Bitty said. “Like, when I get there, I should stay in the guest room and stay away from you as much as possible for two weeks just in case I get exposed to this on the road. And -- wait. What did you say?”

“That I never lived with someone before?” Jack said. “Is that weird?”

“No, but, is that what we’ll be doing?” Bitty said. “Living together? I guess I was thinking more of an indefinite visit, until I can find a job and get a place.”

“If that’s what you want,” Jack said. “You’re welcome to my guest bedroom, I guess.”

“And your kitchen?” Bitty said. “I’ve been itching to bake with you for weeks now.”

“With me or with my kitchen?” Jack chirped. 

“Both?” Bitty said.

“You should know training camp starts in July,” Jack said. “So I won’t be home that much. And once we start playing, I won’t be home until … I really don’t know when. So it won’t be so much that you’re staying with me as staying in my place.”

“Ugh, that’s true,” Bitty said. “Little old me, all alone in a luxury condo with top-of-the-line everything. It’ll be like the best house sitting job ever. I can take in the mail and water the plants.”

Jack chuckled.

“What makes you think I have plants?”

“You have one,” Bitty said. “I saw that ficus in your living room.”

“What makes you think it’s real?” Jack challenged.

“Uh … there was a dead leaf?”

“Was there?” 

Bitty could hear Jack walking through the condo.

“Shit, you’re right,” Jack said. “I usually have a service take care of the plants but they haven’t been coming because of the pandemic. They sent instructions … but I think I forgot to water last week.”

“See?” Bitty said. “I can make myself useful.”

“You don’t have to,” Jack said. “You’re welcome to come and stay as long as you want or need to. If things open up enough by then, I can get the plant lady to come back. But we don’t have to figure it out now.”

“No, now I just need to tell my parents that after moving home from college and more or less directly into MooMaw’s house, I’m going to move back to New England at the end of June to live with a man I’ve never met,” Bitty said. “It should go well.”

“Haha,” Jack said. “I’ll have to … is it okay if I tell the team? That you’re staying with me? They don’t have to know we’re anything besides friends. But it would be hard to keep it to myself, I think.”

“Of course,” Bitty said. “It’s your home, your team. Tell them as much as you want.”

“Thanks,” Jack said. “Good luck with your folks. Let me know how it goes. And Bittle …”

“Yeah?”

“I’m really looking forward to meeting you in person.”

“Me too,” Bitty said. “I mean, meeting you, not me.”

They ended the call with Jack laughing at Bitty’s joke. Bitty shook his head and looked at the phone for a moment before heading back to the kitchen and resuming his work on the dough.

“Well?” MooMaw asked.

“Looks like I’m headed to Providence in a couple of weeks,” Bitty said. “So this is gonna be a peach pie for Mama.”

Bitty was waiting on MooMaw’s porch with the pie, a pitcher of sweet tea and a container of peanut butter cookies boxed up for coach when his mother came with the groceries. She left the bags on the step, and Bitty got up to carry them inside. 

“Go ahead and get yourself some pie and tea,” he said. “There’s something I want to talk to you about.”

He left the bags in the kitchen with MooMaw, and came back outside, cutting his own slice of pie before taking a seat on the other side of the porch from his mother.

“Is this about Aunt Connie?” his mother said. “She called this morning. She was asking if I thought we could put together some kind of order business for baked goods and jams and such, maybe sell at farmer’s markets and things. I said you’d have to be part of it too, of course. Because then we could make more, and cover more markets every weekend.”

“No,” Bitty said. “Well, sort of. It’s about Aunt Connie moving back here, at least.”

“You know your room’s been ready for you,” his mother said. “And I know you’re a grown man and need your privacy. Your father and I won’t be nosy.”

What did they think Bitty would be doing in his room? By himself? Because he honestly didn’t know any other gay men in Madison, although there must be some, just based on numbers. And anything else … well, he’d been a teenager already hadn’t he?

He wished he weren’t blushing to the roots of his hair when he said, “No, Mother. It’s not about moving home. Or, I guess, it’s about not moving home.”

His mother looked confused.

“It’s going to be difficult to find a place around here just now, and you’d need a job …”

“I know,” Bitty said. “I will need a job, and that will be hard to find around here. You knew I was planning to go back north.”

“But, where --”

“With Jack,” Bitty said. “He invited me.”

“You can’t impose on a man you barely know for goodness knows how long,” his mother said, like it was obvious. “Even if he says it’s okay, people get tired of having guests.”

“I know, Mama, but it won’t be like that,” Bitty said, hoping very much that he was right. “By the time I get there, he’ll be in training camp, and then he’ll be away for the playoffs the NHL is doing this year, keeping all the teams in the same place, so he won’t even be there for a lot of the time. And he’s got a spare room and bathroom and everything.”

“Now, Dicky,” his mother said. “I know you really like Jack, from the time you’ve spent on the computer with him, and he does seem taken with you, but that’s not real life. I’d hate for you to go so far only to be disappointed. Maybe you can visit him for a week and come home?”

“No, ma’am,” Bitty said. “Traveling isn’t such a great idea right now -- I’m planning to isolate myself for a couple of weeks once I get there just in case -- and anyway, I wasn’t asking permission. I was sharing my plans.”


	2. Chapter 2

Jack set his phone down and looked around his condo.

He knew Bittle had seen it, at least a lot of it, during their video chats, but seeing it on a phone or computer screen was a lot different from being there.

Bittle liked Jack’s kitchen, or at least his appliances. Jack knew that. But it was so different from the kitchen Bitty was in when they cooked together. That kitchen had a window that was perpetually open, letting the breeze ruffle the yellow curtains, and flowers on the table and all sorts of colorful touches that made it look like a home.

Jack’s kitchen had stainless steel appliances, pale gray cabinets and slate gray granite counters. Most of his dish towels were black. The blinds that covered the window (which didn’t open) were gray. Even the light fixtures were stainless steel.

When he’d moved in, he’d liked the monochromatic look. He didn’t have to worry about anything matching or clashing if everything was a variation on the same color. Or lack of color.

The rest of the place wasn’t much better, although the living room did have some blue and white accents. And his bedroom (which Bittle had never seen, not even on a call because … because that would make Jack feel weird) was mostly done in shades of blue. At least the guest bedroom had more colors, if only because his mother bought the curtains and bedding. (“If you expect me to sleep here it can’t look like an ice palace,” she told him.) And Bittle was going to stay in the guest room, with its earth tones and mossy green comforter. At least Jack thought he was planning to stay in the guest room.

But Bittle was also planning to move north. Maybe he’d have his own stuff? Jack would be fine if he wanted to use that. If not, Jack had a storage locker in the basement. There was plenty of room. As long as Bittle didn’t bring all his baking supplies. Haha.

That reminded Jack that he needed more butter and shortening. And he’d go ahead and get the ten-pound bag of flour this time, if Bittle would be here in a couple of weeks. Jack could talk to him to find out what else he wanted first.

Maybe Jack should get some colorful dish towels? He started shopping online, and ended up ordering a dozen multi-colored towels, two new sets of oven mitts in blue and red, and a new apron. Well, two new aprons, because they’d probably bake together at some point. And it wasn’t like Jack ever used an apron before. He figured that if he wore a T-shirt and track pants, it was just as easy to throw them in the wash as an apron.

Would Bittle expect him to dress better? No, probably not. That would be unreasonable. This was Jack’s home. As much as Jack hoped Bittle might someday see it as his home too, he’d been clear that he was arriving as a guest. As long as Jack wasn’t actually a pig, he should be fine.

It was just -- Bittle didn’t seem to hang out in sloppy clothes. He wore shorts with belts, or that at least had a fastening at the waist, and polo shirts and button downs. Once or twice Jack had seen him in a Samwell hockey T-shirt, but always paired with nice shorts or jeans. Jack appreciated jeans … on Bittle. While Jack himself had a few pairs, they never fit comfortably, even after tailoring. Not like -- well, not like his elastic-waisted workout gear, which he knew sent his mother into bouts of despair. 

He picked up his phone and called his mother.

“I need more pants,” he said.

“Hello, Jack, it’s good to hear from you,” Alicia said. “Your father and I are fine. How are you?”

“Maman, I’m fine,” Jack said. “But I don’t have any pants to wear.”

“You mean all of your pants are in the laundry?’ Alicia said. “Because I know you have several pairs of those Under Armor ones you like.”

“No, I mean other pants,” Jack said. “Like the ones Papa wears. Not jeans.”

“You want dad pants?” 

Now his mother sounded confused rather than teasing.

“Where do you have to go that you wear anything besides athletic wear or a suit?” she asked.

“Not ‘dad pants,’” Jack said. “Just, like, pants you could wear to a casual restaurant or something like that.”

“You’re not thinking of going to a restaurant?” Alicia said. “I know things are opening back up, but didn’t the team advise everyone to maintain safe distances?”

“No, I’m not going to a restaurant,” Jack said. “I invited Bittle to live with me.”

There was a pause.

“Excuse me, what?”

“I invited Bittle to stay here,” Jack said. “Because he never wanted to move back to Georgia when school ended, but it happened so abruptly that he didn’t have time to make plans. He thinks the job market will be better for him in New England, and, well, I think he just wants to get out of Georgia.”

“So he’s moving in with you?” his mother said, a little faintly. “He seems like a wonderful young man, but you’ve never met him.”

“Not in person, no,” Jack said. “But we’ve spent a lot of time together, baking and talking. Doing the Falcs bakeoff … I talked to him more than any of the team. And it’s not permanent. At least, not yet. He said he’d stay until he gets a job and can find his own place.”

“He said it’s not permanent … yet?” his mother said. “Jacky, don’t set yourself up to get your heart broken. I know you really like Eric --”

“I know, Maman, I do like him, and he likes me,” Jack said. “We’ve talked about that. But we’re not jumping into anything.”

“Except him moving in with you.”

“He’s going to stay in the guest room,” Jack said. “And I’m going to be busy with training camp, and then gone altogether with playoffs. I’m 27 years old, Maman, and I know what I’m doing. I ordered extra flour and butter and shortening, and some new dish towels and things. Just … he dresses in clothes like that, and I don’t have any, and I don’t want him to be disappointed.”

“Jack, sweetheart, while I agree that expanding your wardrobe is a wise choice, there’s really no way for you to get trousers that fit without having them tailored,” his mother said. “That can probably wait, don’t you think? He’s already seen the way you dress. Is he that desperate to get out of Georgia?”

“Haha,” Jack said. “He’s been living with his grandmother, helping her out in quarantine, but his aunt got laid off and is moving back in, so his grandmother doesn’t need him and won’t have space. And I think he’s afraid if he moves back in with his parents, he’ll never leave. He could stay with some of his college friends in Boston, but I have the space, so why not? You don’t really think he’s an ax murderer, do you?”

“Of course not,” his mother said. “I really have enjoyed watching his videos, and I’m sure you two are enjoying getting to know each other. I just don’t want you to get hurt. Or him, either, I suppose, but I’m more worried about you. Besides, it’s been a long time since you’ve had to share your living quarters with anyone. If he is moving in -- even as a long-term guest -- you’re going to have to make some adjustments.”

“I know,” Jack said. “But that’s true of living with anyone, unless I want to stay by myself forever. And if we have this quarantine, how else can we get to know each other in person?”

“I know it seems logical to you,” his mother said. “And it sounds like you’re saying all the right things -- but I’m worried that you’ll get your hopes up and then be disappointed if it doesn’t work out like you want.”

“I know,” Jack said. “But couldn’t that happen anyway?”

After ending the call with his mother, Jack called Tater, who was certain to be pleased at the news.

“The Bitty baker is moving into your place?” Tater all but boomed. “And will be baking there? I bet his food tastes so good. Better than yours, even.”

“Thanks, Tater,” Jack deadpanned.

“Yours is good too,” Tater said. “It’s like hockey. Just because one player is good, someone else can still be better, yeah?”

“Are you trying to trash talk me about hockey too?” Jack asked.

“I wasn’t talking about you,” Tater said.

“Right,” Jack said. “Anyway, yes, he probably is -- definitely is -- a better baker than me, but he won’t get here until training camp starts and we have to be more careful about our nutrition plans leading up to it anyway. I just called you because --”

“Because you wanted to share good news?” Tater asked. 

“Yeah, Tater,” Jack said, relieved. “Because it is good news.”

“The best,” Tater said.

“Only maybe not everyone will see it that way,” Jack said.

“Because you’re dating a boy,” Tater said.

“Sort of,” Jack said. “I mean, we agreed to try it, with him in Georgia and me here. But having him stay with me makes it complicated, which I know, and he knows, but if we want to find out if it will work I don’t know what else to do, and then we’re going to be away anyway.”

“And when we get back, there will be so many pies!”

“Yeah, about that,” Jack said. “I was going to ask around to find places that would take donated baked goods. Soup kitchens and food pantries and places like that, so Bittle will have something to do with everything he bakes. But that would be easiest to do by calling the community relations staff, which means I have to explain this whole thing to them.”

“Why explain the whole thing?” Tater said. “They know Bitty from the bakeoff. Tell them he’s moving up here and wants to give baked goods away They’ll help.”

“I guess,” Jack said. “I guess I should probably ask him first.”

Jack thought about texting, but he wanted to actually see Bittle. He’d gone from worrying about Bittle’s text to jumping into having him as at least a temporary roommate to online shopping to hearing his mother’s misgivings and … this would be easier to talk about in person.

So instead of texting about baked goods, he texted, _I have to go in for conditioning in an hour. Can you do a quick video call before that?_

The answer came immediately,

_I’m available rn_

So less than a minute later, Jack was once again looking at Bittle in his MooMaw’s kitchen. It looked like he had been washing dishes.

“I just told Mama I was moving up by you,” Bittle said.

“How’d she take it?” Jack asked.

“As well as could be expected,” Bittle said. “She’s worried about me staying with you when we don’t know each other in person yet, and she says guests wear on a person after a little while.”

“I, uh, told my mother, too,” Jack said. 

“How’d that go?” 

“Maybe about the same as yours?” Jack said. “She warned me that living with someone else would be an adjustment.”

“It will be,” Bittle said. “For both of us, I guess. Are you sure you want to do this? No hard feelings if you don’t.”

“No, I’m sure,” Jack said. “I think. I think we know each other better than they realize, maybe. And I want to try. Tater was excited.”

“Good,” Bittle said. “I’m glad to hear that.”

“Well, he was excited about all the pies,” Jack said. “But we’re not going to be able to eat many of them. What would you think if I worked with the community relations people to find places you could donate stuff? Since, you know, I don’t have a commercial freezer.”


	3. Chapter 3

Bitty packed his clothes into the big suitcase he’d bought when he first went to Samwell. He could probably get by with that and a couple of boxes. And his hockey bag. And a backpack. Unless he wanted to take more of his cookbooks? Maybe a few boxes.

At least he didn’t have furniture. But that meant he’d have to buy some if he ever did get a job and moved out of Jack’s place. Lord, that was going to be hard, going from a professional hockey player’s condo to the kind of place he could afford on first-job-out-of-college money.

Bitty resolutely told himself not to worry about that now. Jack had offered him a place to stay for as long as he needed, told him he wouldn’t be in the way, especially as Jack himself was likely to be gone for anywhere from several weeks to a couple of months.

And maybe he’d never need to move out at all, a little voice said.

Bitty firmly shushed that voice too and continued rolling T-shirts and underwear to go into the big suitcase.

His video equipment and some of his favorite baking tools could go into a box; if he drove straight through he wouldn’t have to worry about hauling everything into a motel room at night. His laptop would go in his backpack, along with his important documents: passport, insurance cards (even though his parents’ HMO only covered emergency care outside Georgia), bank statements. And Senor Bun. That would ride in the cab with him.

He also wouldn’t have to worry about bedding or towels or anything, at least not at first. Jack’s home had all that stuff already. He’d even asked Bitty what color stand mixer he wanted, which had left Bitty feeling … a little sick to his stomach, actually.

“Jack, you shouldn’t be buying a mixer for me,” he said. “They’re expensive.”

“Who said it’s for you?” Jack countered. “You know better than anyone that I’m learning to bake. It seems like a good investment. Besides, I can afford it.”

Bitty had blown out an exasperated sigh and said, “Then you should pick the color.”

“You’ve seen my kitchen, Bittle,” Jack said. “If I pick, it’ll be silver. Or maybe I’ll branch out to … what’s this one? Nickel pearl.”

“You mean the chrome silver?” Bitty said. “I know Kitchen-Aid makes like forty colors, but I don’t remember a nickel pearl.”

“No, there’s eight colors,” Jack said.

“Wait,” Bitty said. “You’re looking at the six-quart model? Jack, those are $500.”

“Is that not good value for the money?”

“No, it’s great,” Bitty said. He’d been coveting that mixer for years. “But Jack …”

“Red? Blue? Aqua?” Jack said. “Or is it going to be silver or gray?”

“Blue,” Bitty finally said. “For the Falconers.”

“Not red for Samwell?”

Bitty really liked the red, but it felt wrong to make Jack buy a mixer in his old team’s color. A mixer that would definitely stay in Jack’s kitchen, if and when Bitty moved out.

“Up to you,” he finally said. “Either one. Red or blue. Surprise me.”

It looked like Jack was ordering the mixer from his laptop while on the call with Bitty.

“Are you still planning to drive straight through?” Jack asked. “It’s a sixteen-hour trip. Are you sure that’s safe?”

“Safer than stopping and all the interacting that would mean,” Bitty said. “It’ll be closer to 18 hours because I’ll take breaks. But if I leave at midnight, I’ll make good time early and it’ll be broad daylight still when I get there.”

“But that puts you driving through the metro corridor when you’re exhausted,” Jack argued.

“Gonna happen that way no matter what time I leave,” Bitty said.”I’d rather be able to see better.”

After he ended the call with Jack, he texted Lardo.

_You guys around? Can we do a call?_

His inbox beeped with an invitation to a video call with Lardo, and he logged in.

“What’s up, brah?” she said, before turning to call over her shoulder, “Shitty! Come talk to Bitty!”

“I, um, have some news,” Bitty said. “I’m moving back north.”

“What, brah?” Shitty said, sliding onto the couch next to Lardo. “That’s great! You still need a place to stay while you figure things out? This couch has your name on it.”

“Um, no,” Bitty said. “I have a place.”

“Where, dude?” Shitty said. “Don’t tell me Ransom and Holster poached you right out from under our noses.”

“No,” Bitty said. “Jack invited me?”

“Jack invited you,” Lardo deadpanned. “The hockey player you’ve been pining over for weeks now?”

“Yes,” Bitty said.

“In all fairness, Lards, how do we know his hockey-ness hasn’t been pining over Bitty here?” Shitty said. “Bits is very pine-over-able.”

“Of course he is,” Lardo said. “But from what Bitty’s said, they’ve literally just baked together, and done that video thing.”

“But for Jack Zimmermann -- the least lifelike of all the hockey robots -- to agree to a video baking contest has to mean something,” Shitty said.”Right, Bitty?” “Right,” Bitty said. “Actually, we’ve been talking about maybe dating? Online and then when we could live the same place? I didn’t say anything before because obviously Jack’s not out, and I said I’d keep things private, but with me moving back, I obviously had to tell people where I’m staying. Anyway, he knows I’m telling you. He wanted me too, even. But y’all can’t tell anyone else.”

“Of course,” Shitty said. “As long as you’re okay with that. You shouldn’t feel like you have to hide.”

“I don’t,” Bitty said. “Feel like that, I mean. His parents know I’m staying with him, and they know he’s bi, and, well, they helped him with the graduation party for our class, so they’ve got to suspect he likes me, right? And the team at least knows I exist. Get this, _he_ asked _me_ whether he could tell his team that I was staying at his place, so they know. At least some of them. And the staff does too -- he asked the community relations staff to help find places that would accept donated baked goods because he knows he can’t eat them all.”

“So you just can’t go public about actually dating?” Lardo asked.

“Not yet,” Bitty said. “Which admittedly, is easier with us just talking online than having me stay at his place for who knows how long. Honestly, that’s one of the things that’s worrying me. When we talked about dating when we lived in the same place, we were thinking same city, or even same general area, not same condo. So I really don’t know how this is going to work. I’m planning to move into the guest room to start.”

“That’s a good start,” Lardo said. “And don’t feel like you have no place to go, all right? You can always come here.”

“When do we get to meet him?” Shitty said. “You got to meet most of his team already, with the videos. And b-t-w, Ransom is jealous that Mashkov wants to be your new best friend.” “Aww, Tater’s sweet.” Bitty said. “Let me set up a call with Jack, okay? For before I move.”

When they had finalized the time for the call the day before, Bitty may have gone a little overboard in preparing his friends to meet Jack, NHL hockey player, baking buddy and Bitty’s maybe-someday-soon boyfriend (Boyfriend already? No. Too soon)..

“We get it, Bitty,” Shitty had said. “There’s more to him than hockey skills and lack of interview skills. We know he must have other assets … I mean beyond the obvious.”

“Come on, Shits,” Lardo had said. “He bonded with Bitty over baking. There must be some hidden depths to him.”

“Depths that our Bitty is only too eager to explore,” Shitty said.

“Now that y’all have that out of your system,” Bitty said. “Just be nice, okay? He’s really kind of awkward and shy.”

“Never would have guessed that,” Lardo said.

“Still,” Bitty said. “You guys up for maybe a game of online Boggle?”

Shitty looked suspicious, but agreed to the plan.

That call was going to happen tonight, the last time Bitty would sleep all night in Madison. Tomorrow, he would swing by his parents’ house to pick up the things he wanted to bring that were still stored there -- his hockey bag from the garage, his winter coat -- and say goodbye before doing his final packing and trying to catch a few hours of rest. He planned to head out a little after midnight.

That should have him arriving at Jack’s place around 5 p.m., presuming a few stops for gas and maybe even a nap in a rest area.

He really should have arranged this call earlier. What if Shitty and Lardo didn’t like Jack? What if Jack didn’t like them?

Bitty closed the suitcase and shoved it to the floor by the foot of the bed. He opened his laptop to start the call with Jack; Shitty and Lardo had been invited to join fifteen minutes later, to give Bitty and Jack time to deal with moving details on their own.

Bitty checked the time and connected the call with Jack.

“Hey, Jack,” he said, feeling suddenly shy. If Lardo and Shitty were thinking about the possibility that Bitty and Jack would be … physically intimate … in the near future, was Jack thinking the same thing? Because Bitty, no matter how hard he tried to push those thoughts down, was most definitely thinking it. And the image of Jack, with a freshly shaven face and damp hair curled around his brow and a close-fitting Under Armor T-shirt did nothing to help.

“Hey, Bittle,” Jack said, his eyes focused on the screen. “How’s the packing?”

“Almost done,” Bitty said. “Just the stuff at Mama and Coach’s house, and some baking stuff.”

“I meant to ask -- and it’s fine if you don’t have time -- but maybe you could send me a grocery list tomorrow?” Jack said. “Not just baking ingredients, but whatever you like to eat or drink, too. That way I can have it delivered before you get here.”

“I’m sure whatever you have will be fine.”

“I’m getting two meals a day now from the training staff,” Jack said. “You should get what you want. Really.”

“Fine,” Bitty said, and tried for an exasperated sigh. “I guess we can ask Lardo and Shitty to help with that. Oh, and I found a site that will do an online Boggle game. If I share my screen, we can all play.”

“Are you sure that’s the best idea?” Jack said. “Sometimes people get … unhappy when they don’t win.”

“It’ll be fine,” Bitty said. “We’ll play teams. Me and you against them. We can take them.”

“I’m pretty sure of that,” Jack said. “But what if they get upset?”

“They won’t.”

Then Lardo’s name appeared on Bitty’s screen and he added her to the call, with Shitty in the frame next to her.

“Lardo, Shitty, this is Jack Zimmermann. Jack, these are my friends Lardo and Shitty.”

“‘Sup,” Lardo said.

“Not much,” Jack said. “What’s up with you?”

“So Bitty’s staying with you?” Shitty said. “Do you have any idea of the workout he’s going to put your kitchen through?” “Haha,” Jack said. “I think so.”

“Whatever you’re thinking and more, my friend,” Shitty said.

“Guys, I got the online Boggle board,” Bitty said. “I’m gonna share my screen. Me and Jack against you guys. Jack, just write down the words you find and I will too, and we won’t count duplicates. Three minutes. Ready, set, go.”

Bitty spent maybe the first minute and a half compiling a list of mostly three- and four-letter words. The rest of the time, he watched Jack and his friends.Jack easily beat everyone, with all of Bitty’s words and dozens more, and at least double the total Shitty and Lardo came up with. Sure, Shitty snickered at “grinder” and even “long,” but when Jack finished reading off his list, Lardo said, “Props, dude. You’re good at that.”

“I used to play a lot with the St. Martins,” Jack said. “I lived with Marty and Gabby for a while.”

“Yeah?” Shitty said. “Is he like, the team dad?” 

“Pretty much,” Jack said. “He’s hosted a lot of rookies.”

“Any of them as good at Boggle as you?” Lardo asked.

“Uh, no,” Jack said. “That’s why we don’t play it on Falconer game nights.”

“So what do you play?”

“A lot of Pictionary,” Jack said.

“Cool, dude,” Lardo said.

“Lardo’s an artist,” Bitty chimed in.

“Really?” Jack said. “Maybe I could invite you sometime? You could be on my team. But I don’t know if we’ll do it again until the next offseason. If there is an offseason.”

“Are you always this competitive?” Lardo asked.

“Yes.”

“Sweet.”

Shitty cleared his throat and put on what Bitty classified as his speechifying face.

“Oh, Lord. Here we go,” Bitty said, hopefully too quiet for anyone to hear.

“So here’s the deal,” Shitty said. “Bitty likes you, and you seem like a good enough guy, but I want you and Bitty both to know that he always has somewhere else to go. He might be living in your place, at least for now, but he doesn’t have to. And if you make things hard on him and I hear about it, I’ll do whatever it takes --”

“I know,” Jack said. “I know a lot of people love Bittle, and the last thing I want to do is come between him and you or any of his friends.”

“Just so we’re clear,” Shitty said. 


	4. Chapter 4

The first thing Jack did when he got off the ice was check his phone, a move that did not go unnoticed.

“BItty getting here today?” Marty asked.

“Yeah,” Jack said. “Not for a little while, though. He was driving straight through.”

Jack’s phone had a text with a photo of the Connecticut Welcome Center sign.

_Last stop before Providence. Google says I should be there in about two and a half hours. I can’t wait!_

The text had been sent only about five minutes earlier, so Bitty might still be there, especially if he had to get gas.

_I bet you can’t wait to get out of that truck,_ Jack texted back. _Just got off the ice, so I should be home by the time you get here. Go ahead and use the code I gave you for the garage and go ahead up. If I’m running late I’ll text you and let the doorman know to let you in._

The typing bubbles were nearly immediate.

_Not because I’m tired of driving … well, maybe a little because I’m tired of driving. But remember, we agreed I have to isolate myself for a couple of weeks. (sad face)_

Jack stripped off his sweaty gear before replying.

_Socially distance. We can have dinner together -- my table’s at least six feet long. But i know, and it kind sucks, but we can still talk and see each other, right?_

There was no answer, so Bittle was was probably back on the road. Time for Jack to get moving.

He showered and dressed and thanked God that the team was allowed to use the facility’s showers again, now that they were all being tested every day. It had felt gross driving home in his sweaty clothes for the weeks they were only allowed individual and small-group workouts, and he definitely did not want to bring that funk home with him. Not if Bittle was going to be there.

Once he was dressed, he stopped in the trainers’ room for his test and headed out.

If Bitty was already in Connecticut -- maybe most of the way through it by now -- Jack should get home and order something for dinner. It would be arriving early, but Bittle would have to be exhausted.

Jack briefly thought about stopping for flowers on his way home, but players were supposed to take as much care as they could. George hadn’t been especially happy when she found out Bittle was moving in, but she knew he’d been quarantined with his grandmother since March, and Bittle promised to take every possible precaution traveling, and stay away from Jack for the first two weeks. 

“I should get points for being honest,” Jack said when she questioned the plan. “I could have just not said anything.”

“I know,” George said. “But you’re a leader on the team. If they guys don’t think you’re taking this seriously, then they won’t either.”

“I am taking it seriously,” Jack said. “And I’ll make sure they know.”

Sometimes being the face of the franchise had its perks. At least Jack was never seriously worried they’d keep him off the ice.

Jack stowed his bag and looked around the condo when he got home, checking to make sure there were no last-minute preparations to make. The guest room had clean sheets, there were towels in the guest bathroom, and the kitchen was stocked with an assortment of food that included everything from fresh fruit and vegetables and expensive baking chocolate to Bagel Bites.

(“I know,” Bittle said when he sent the list. “I’m ashamed.”)

Jack had picked a couple of six packs of beer because he’d occasionally seen Bittle drinking it while they chatted, and he bought a big jar that was supposed to be used for making iced tea in the sun.

He called his favorite Thai place -- apparently, there was no good Thai take-out in Madison -- and placed an order to be delivered, then he called the front desk to let them know he was expecting the delivery. After that, he waited.

And he wondered. Inviting Bittle to move to Providence seemed like such a good idea at the time, solving Bittle’s problem of finding a place to live without getting sucked back into his childhood bedroom, and getting him away from Georgia, and Jack’s desire to see him and get to know him in person.

He knew his mother meant well, but Jack was sure Bittle wasn’t evil or anything. They’d spent enough time together (not to mention the hours of video Jack had broken down and watched) for Jack to feel certain of that. Bittle wouldn’t murder him in his sleep, or steal his -- what did he even have that he couldn’t replace? Bittle wouldn’t spread rumors about him, or try to trade on Jack’s name. Jack was sure of it.

But Parse had never done any of that, and things still ended badly, with recriminations and hurt feelings on both sides. It had taken years to get where they were now, years for Jack to understand how badly he hurt Kenny when he cut him off without so much as a word after the overdose, a decision that -- at the time -- he told himself was for Kenny’s own good. 

What if Jack screwed this up again? What if Bittle couldn’t stand him, found his awkwardness annoying and off-putting in person? What if --

There was a knock at the door. Bittle, or food?

Food. Summer rolls and satay and pad thai and green curry. Jack disposed of the bags, put the containers on the counter, wiped them with disinfectant and washed his hands.

He was taking plates from the cupboard when another knock came, this one quieter, maybe a little tentative?

When Jack pulled the door open, it was all he could do not to wrap Bittle in in his arms.

He was so much like his on-screen image, but different. He was actually bigger than Jack expected; Bittle was smaller than anyone on his hockey team, Jack had seen that from the games he watched online, and Bittle made so many jokes about being short that Jack had started to think of him as tiny.

Instead, he was compact, with well-muscled shoulders, a trim midsection and good proportions. He was also all but drooping over the threshold, his peach-patterned mask making a bright contrast to the pallor of his face and the circles under his eyes.

Jack stepped back quickly and pulled his own mask from his pocket.

“Sorry,” he said. “Come in. I got Thai for dinner. I thought you’d be tired and hungry.”

Bittle stepped through the door and closed it behind him, let his knapsack slide from his shoulder to the floor and looked up at Jack.

He might be tired, but his eyes were so warm, Jack felt like he was the one being welcomed in his own home.

“Thanks, Jack.” Bittle said. “I thought I’d cook tonight, but … take-out was a good idea. Is that curry?”

“Yeah,” Jack said. “I remembered you said you liked it. But you’ve got to be exhausted. Let me show you your room and the bathroom. Do you want to clean up before we eat?”

“Wash my hands, maybe,” Bittle said. “And I’m parched. I was trying not to drink too much so I wouldn’t have to stop so often.”

“I’ll get water on the table,” Jack said, and reached to pick up Bittle’s bag.

“No,” Bittle said. “You should let me. And I have to get my suitcase out of the truck. The boxes can wait until tomorrow. If you think they’re safe in the garage?”

“Probably,” Jack said, leading the way through the living room to the corridor on the other side. Bittle stayed a safe six feet behind. “But we can move them tonight if you want.”

Jack opened the guest room door.

“Here, this is your room,” Jack said. “I cleared out the drawers and closet. The bathroom’s right next to it, and my room is across the hall.”

“That bed looks heavenly,” Bittle said, setting his backpack down on the floor. “Let me use the bathroom and we can eat.”

Bittle didn’t take his mask off until he had served himself some of everything, poured a glass of water and sat at the far end of the table.

“I can’t believe you remembered the curry,” Bittle said. “It’s so bad for you, but it’s delicious.”

Jack shrugged. 

“I kind of need a lot of calories right now,” Jack said. “And most of the fat is plant-based, although there’s conflicting research on how coconut milk affects cholesterol. I think it’s okay in moderation.”

Bittle nodded and kept eating. It would be wrong to say he was shoveling food into his mouth, but he was clearly hungry. And tired. Jack found himself wishing they could take their plates to the couch, lean back, put their stockinged feet up on the coffee table. Maybe Bittle would eventually lean into Jack's shoulder, and Jack would put an arm around him. Maybe Jack would reach up and stroke Bittle’s hair, which, truth be told, was a bit wilted after a long day.

Jack suspected Bittle drove with the window open.

“Everything you’ll need for a shower is in the bathroom,” Jack said. “Why don’t you clean up and get some rest? I can go get your suitcase if you want. Do you need the boxes, too?”

“You shouldn’t be --”

“They’ve been exposed to sun and air all day, and I’ll wear gloves and my mask so I don’t touch my face without thinking,” Jack said. “I’ll even shower and change as soon as I’m done.”

“Oh, sweetpea, that’s kind of you,” Bittle said. “But I can manage my things. Just maybe -- can you come show me the storage space? I can leave the bigger boxes there. I’ll just need the suitcase and the small box for now.”

“Sure,” Jack said. “Leave the dishes. I’ll get them while you shower.”

Bittle looked at him in confusion, then huffed a laugh.

“Of course you can,” he said. “I’m so used to living in a hundred-year-old-house that I forgot there were places where people could do dishes and shower at the same time. Fine. If you insist. But you really don’t have to wait on me like …”

“Like you’re a guest?” Jack said. “I want to make you feel welcome. I wish I could do more than just give you food and a place to wash up and a place to sleep. And, let’s face it, you’re going to be on your own a lot for a while, but at least that will give you time to get acquainted with the kitchen, I guess?”

“I guess,” Bittle said. He looked a little downcast for a moment, but then smiled and pulled out his phone. “I can’t believe I forgot. I have to let Mama and MooMaw -- and Shitty and Lardo -- know I got here. Mind if I send them a picture?”

“Euh, I guess not,” Jack said. “I don’t look --”

“You look fine,” Bittle said. “A sight for sore eyes, as my MooMaw would say. Stay right there.”

Then Bitty turned so his back was to the table and extended his phone in front of him. Jack guessed he was visible over Bitty’s shoulder.

“Smile!” Bittle said. “Wait. Again. I looked weird.”

Then Bittle was tapping into his phone for … a little while before setting it down. As he did, Jack’s phone vibrated in his pocket.

It was a text from Bittle, with the picture and the note, “Our first picture together.”

The photo wasn’t great -- Bittle still looked tired, and Jack was kind of out of focus -- but it would do the job of confirming that Bittle was here.

“Thanks, Bittle,” Jack said. “I’m glad you're here.”

“Me too, sugar,” Bittle said, the burst of energy from the photo gone.

“Come on,” Jack said. “Let’s get your stuff.”

Both of them tugged their masks back on and washed their hands. Jack added gloves. Then they stood awkwardly apart waiting for the elevator, and on opposite sides once they got in. Jack pressed the button with his key.

He couldn’t miss Bittle’s truck if he wanted to. It was an old blue and while pickup, a little rust around the rear wheel well on the passenger side. The cargo was covered neatly with blue tarp, fastened with bungee cords. 

Jack peeked in the cab while Bittle hopped in the bed, taking off the bungees and tarp.

The seats were vinyl, and where Jack now usually saw video displays and touch screens were knobs and dials.There were even cranks for the windows.

“Great truck,” Jack said.

“I like it,” Bittle said. “Though I did just hook my phone up to a bluetooth speaker for the drive.”

“I mean it,” Jack said. “It’s a classic.”

Jack and Bitty carried the two big boxes and Bittle’s hockey bag to Jack’s storage locker (“The code’s written inside the door of the cabinet next to the sink if you need to get anything and I’m not around.”) and then Jack took the smaller box and Bittle towed his suitcase back to the elevator.

“So what’s in here?” Jack asked.

“Video equipment,” Bittle said. “Baking stuff. I am looking forward to baking in your kitchen tomorrow. You don’t have any allergies, do you? You never said.”

“No,” Jack said. “Just remember, I do have to follow my nutrition plan, so I won’t be able to eat much.”

“No, I get that,” Bittle said. “I’ll just have to make sure what you can eat tastes good, right?”

“Euh, right,” Jack said. 


	5. Chapter 5

Bitty stretched and enjoyed the feel of smooth sheets. Smooth because they were expensive, not because they were so threadbare as to be nearly transparent like the sheets at MooMaw’s house. The bed was maybe the most comfortable one he’d ever slept in, somehow both soft and supportive, with no annoying ridges or valleys. And the duvet was warm and light and fluffy and Bitty was pretty sure he wanted to just stay here all day.

Wait, what time was it?

The curtains did a good job at keeping the light out, but judging by the sunlight in working its way through the gap, it was way past early morning. The smell of coffee was faint but definite.

Bitty sat up, rummaged in his suitcase for a T-shirt and shorts, and padded into the hall. The smell of coffee was stronger, but there was no sound of Jack moving around or eating. 

Bitty made his way to the kitchen and checked the clock on the coffeemaker. 9:30. Jack was long gone.

There was a note on the top sheet of a tablet of paper next to the coffeemaker, the handwriting the same as on the graduation card Jack sent.

_I didn’t want to wake you after such a long day yesterday. I’ll be out until about 4 or 5. There’s coffee made, if it’s not too old by the time you get up, and the groceries you asked for are all in the kitchen. Feel free to explore the place. Take out menus are in the drawer by the fridge -- text me if you want me to order something for dinner. Or just text me and let me know how you’re doing._

Bitty poured coffee and started opening cabinets. That was a lot of protein powder. He checked the refrigerator, too, noting the supplies of butter and shortening. Pie then, and something to put the red stand mixer to use. It was going to be a very good day.

He dropped a bagel in the toaster, got the peanut butter out and then paused to text Jack.

_Sorry I missed you this morning. I’ll be in the kitchen most of the day, I’m sure, so don’t worry about supper. Are you going to want to eat as soon as you get home, or should I plan for later?_

Bitty didn’t expect an answer right away; he knew training camp was a mixture of gym time, ice time and meeting time, and Jack likely wouldn’t even see his phone until the next break. So Bitty ate and made a list of things to bake, then went to shower and put on shorts and a T-shirt.

He stopped on the way back to the kitchen to examine the framed photos that hung in the hallway: a river scene, trees, a close up of a Canada goose. All of them were outdoors, beautifully composed, devoid of people.

He made his way from there into the living room, where one wall was a shrine to hockey. There was a framed Canadiens jersey that said “Zimmermann” -- it must have belonged to Jack’s dad -- and a shadow box with pucks wrapped in tape. Bitty made his way behind the sofa for a better look. First NHL goal, first hat trick, Memorial Cup, holy crap the winning Stanley Cup goal from 2016.

There were photos from the trophy presentation on the ice, and photos of Jack’s teams over the years (including an adorable picture of Jack in coach’s warmups with a group of ten- or eleven-year-old boys in hockey uniforms). Pride of place, though, went to a photo of an empty rink, the ice surface smooth.

It was a striking photo, but also a little sad. The only pictures with people looked like the kind of shots taken by team photographer. There were no photos of friends, or snapshots of family groups, nothing that would show that Jack liked to do anything besides play hockey.

Or play hockey and take pictures.

But Jack was close to his parents, or at least, close enough to get them to help with Bitty’s graduation party. And Jack had mentioned talking to them a few times. There must be some sign of them in the condo,

Bitty looked around. The living area was basically open, with the living room and den (featuring a big pool table and a wall of bookshelves) on one side, with the dining table separated from the kitchen by the island on the other. Bitty ducked back into the corridor.

There was the guest room, and the hall bathroom and a closet on one side. On the other was the door to the room that Jack had said was his, and another door.

Jack had said to explore, so Bitty pushed open the last door in the hall and found a room that was half home gym, half office. There was a bench and free weights, an exercise bike and treadmill, and a gray metal desk and file cabinets. A laptop sat on the desk, closed, and plugged into its charger. A large TV was mounted on the wall.

And there, on the desk, were a handful of family photos. Jack as a toddler, skating with his dad holding both hands; Jack’s parents dressed in evening wear, looking like they were headed out for an event, in front of a staircase; Jack and his mother dancing (maybe at a family wedding?).

Bitty peered at the photos, then tiptoed out of the room and closed the door.

Had Jack put them in here so Bitty wouldn’t see them? Did they usually sit on the bookcase in the den, or next to the plant on the end table in the living room? Why would he hide them, though? The pictures showed a family, that was all.

Bitty made his way back to the kitchen to find what he needed for a maple-apple pie, some blueberry hand pies, PBJ cookies and some snickerdoodles. If Jack bouht yeast -- yes, there it was -- he could make some dinner rolls. There were at least a couple chickens’ worth of chicken pieces in the freezer; he could roast them with potatoes and steam some vegetables.

He had just fitted the dough hook to the new mixer (and taken a picture to send to Jack) when his phone buzzed.

_Did you find everything OK? You don’t have to cook if you’d rather rest._

Bitty sent the picture and said, _I’m starting the dinner rolls. There’ll be a pie, and some hand pies you can take for the team tomorrow. And some cookies. One thing -- can I work out here?_

The typing bubble showed up, and was quickly replaced with a text.

_That sounds like a lot! Sure, you can use the home gym at the end of the hall. You know to be careful with the weights, right?_

Bitty rolled his eyes. He’d been using weight rooms since before he properly hit puberty.

_Yes, Dad. I’ll probably just do some cardio anyway._

Then he set the dough for the rolls aside to rise and started a double batch of pie crust. That chilled while he prepared fillings, then he rolled out the crust and assembled the apple pie and the blueberry hand pies. 

He didn’t see any kind of bluetooth speaker in the kitchen, so he found the one he used in the truck and plugged it in and played his peppiest playlist.

He was swinging his hips while he crimped the crust on the big pie when the music stopped. He glanced at his phone -- Lardo.

“Hey, Bits, how’s the shacking up going?”

“I’m making pie, Lardo,” Bitty said.

“Okay, but … that’s kind of like you saying you’re breathing. You bake when you’re happy. You bake when you’re mad or sad. You bake to relax when you're stressed and … I guess just for fun when you’re not.”

“I’m making an apple pie and a dozen blueberry hand pies. And dinner rolls and two kinds of cookies.”

“Oh-kaaay,” Lardo said. “You either really like the kitchen and can’t wait to use everything, or you’re stressed out and kind of freaked.”

“Both?” Bitty said. “Lardo, the oven is amazing. It’s huge. And it took like, three minutes to preheat. It has a convection setting, which I definitely am gonna learn to use, but maybe not today. And he bought a mixer. Samwell red. And there are red dish towels, plus a couple of other colors, but like, the whole place is like blue and gray. It’s definitely one of the nicest homes I’ve ever been in but …”

“It doesn’t feel like home?” Lardo said. “You literally just got there.”

“I know, but … there are parts? Like the bookshelves in the den and the desk in the office,” Bitty said. “I mean, where it looks like someone really lives here. But so much of it .. it’s beautiful, but Lardo, it’s so .. neat. I mean, Jack’s been in here pretty much constantly for months now, and there’s no charger cords next to the couch or pens on the coffee table or anything.”

“So maybe he’s not human?” Lardo said. “Or maybe he -- let your imagination run wild here -- cleaned up because you were coming.”

“I know,” Bitty said. “But I’m also gonna make sure the kitchen is spotless when I’m done.”

“You’d do that anyway,” Lardo said. “Even if you’d also leave your shoes under the dining room table. So … what’s Jack like in person? Did you two manage to keep your hands off each other last night?”

“Of course!” Bitty said. “What if I was exposed yesterday when I stopped for gas or something? And I could barely stand upright when I got here. Jack had dinner waiting -- he was the perfect host, and a perfect gentleman. And better looking in person, if you can believe it!”

“Yeah? Rolls out of bed an Adonis?”

“Probably,” Bitty said. “He already left for training camp when I got up. I am making dinner though, as well as dessert.”

“Four kinds of dessert.:

“Some of the cookies are for you, so I’ll thank you to hush your mouth,” Bitty said.

“If the way to a man’s heart is through his stomach, you’ll do great,” Lardo said. “You’ll get your guy.”

“I hope so,” Bitty said.

He took a break for lunch while the pies baked, then formed the dough for the rolls and set them aside for their second rise. The cookies didn’t take long, then the rolls in the oven while he did the last of the prep dishes.

Once they came out, he just had time for a quick workout and shower before Jack would be home.

That’s what he thought, anyway.

He put his earbuds in, found a workout playlist and jumped on the treadmill for a quick three miles. It wasn’t particularly fast or hard, just a chance to zone out and stretch his legs.

He stepped into the hall, hot and sweaty and ready for a shower -- and nearly collided with a very broad, very hard, very warm chest.

“Whoa!” Bitty sprang back, suddenly very aware that his mask was in his bedroom, along with the clothes he’d intended to change into. 

Jack at least was still wearing his, a neat dark blue design that looked like it would go with a business suit.

The thought brought a giggle to Bitty’s lips, but he stilled when he saw the way Jack was looking at him. 

It was -- not a leer, precisely, because a leer implied some kind of violation, but definitely a look of interest, of hunger even. It was a look that made Bitty feel naked, a little exposed, even though he was wearing running shorts and a tank top and sneakers.

Bitty pulled the earbuds out of his ears, tinny pop music spilling into the silent pause.

“You shouldn’t sneak up on people like that,” Bitty said, still a little breathless. “Give a boy a heart attack, why don’t you?”

Jack looked down at his own feet, in dark skate shoes to go with the dark wash jeans and the dark gray button down.

“Sorry,” he said, in that Canadian way with the long O sound. “I didn’t mean to surprise you. I was just looking for you to say I was home.”

“Lord, Jack, you don’t have to apologize,” Bitty said, shifting his feet. He could really use that shower. “It’s your house. I just wasn’t expecting you to be home so soon. Let me get cleaned up and get dinner on.”

“I saw the pies,” Jack said. “In the kitchen. And the cookies and stuff. It all smells great.”

“Better than I do at the moment,” Bitty said. “Give me fifteen minutes and then you can sit at the table and talk to me while I cook, okay?”

Jack didn’t talk to him. Bitty had pulled the seasoned chicken pieces from the refrigerator, arranged them on a grid of celery and carrots in the roasting pan, and put them in the oven. 

“How was training camp?” Bitty asked.

“Good,” Jack said.

“Marty and Tater doing alright?” Bitty asked. “And bless him, Poots? Thirdy?”

“They’re all fine,” Jack said.

“How do you think the team will do, coming back after the layoff?” Bitty persisted. 

Jack shrugged. “As well as anyone else, I guess.”

The charge that Bitty had felt in the hallway was gone, but it seemed to have taken Jack’s ability to converse with it. Jack’s expression wasn’t like it was when he was being interviewed. He didn’t seem hostile or unwilling. Just … something.

He had never been like this when they baked together online, or even when they’d started talking without baking. Maybe the elephant in the room -- the elephant that had nearly squeezed every bit of air out of the hallway a little bit ago -- had gotten to him.

“Jack, honey, could you peel these potatoes for me?” Bitty said, setting a bowl of potatoes and a vegetable peeler at the end of the table opposite Jack. He added a basin for the peels and a cutting board and knife. “When they’re done, cut them into cubes about so big,”

He held up his thumb and forefinger an inch apart, then retreated back into the kitchen so Jack could take the potatoes without getting too close.

Jack was three strokes into peeling the first potato when he said, “So did you even leave the kitchen today? You can use the living room and dining room, too, maybe watch a movie or read a book? I thought you’d want to rest today.”

“Oh, I did, honey,” Bitty said. “In my own way. I have to mail some of those cookies out anyway. Shoot, I forgot to ask about boxes and mailing supplies.”

“I’ll call downstairs,” Jack said. “The concierge can help with stuff like that.”

“Ooh, do you know what kind of pie he likes?”

“She,” Jack said. “Breanna. And no. I’ve never asked.”

“And here you were making all these pies!”

“I wanted them to be good before I started inflicting them on people,”: Jack said. “Besides, she seems happy enough with cash tips.”

“I suppose,” Bitty said. “But I bet she’d be even happier with cash and pie! Tell you what, if you call and ask for boxes and such, ask her about her pie preferences too. Then I’ll have one ready tomorrow for her.”

“Sure thing, bud,” Jack said. “She’s probably gone home now anyway. I can send her an email for the morning. Wait … let me take your picture so she knows you belong here.”

Bitty expected Jack to use his phone, but he got up and went to the office, maybe to get his laptop?

Bitty took the opportunity to set the table before getting the steamer (a metal colander set in a large saucepan, because that was the closest he could come with Jack’s equipment) ready.

He decided to live dangerously and opened a bottle of Blue Moon, then sliced an orange to do the thing properly.

Jack came back with his laptop and a camera.

“Smile,” he said. “Wait, take your mask down just for a second. I should take one both ways.”


	6. Chapter 6

Jack spent a long time staring at the ceiling that night.

His difficulty sleeping was nothing to do with dinner -- it was delicious, and even with a small slice of pie, it was in line with what Jack was supposed to eat. The pie was amazing, with flaky layers of crust surrounding a filling that was warm and fragrant and tasted of home.

But Jack couldn’t forget that Bittle was there, in the condo, sleeping (Was he asleep? Or lying awake like Jack was?) in the room across the hall. The condo felt different, whether it was the scent of Bittle’s citrus shampoo or just a disturbance in the air currents. 

Bittle was … just like Jack had expected, and entirely different. He was just as sunny and sweet and sassy as he had been from a distance, but the physical reality of him … Jack hadn’t counted on that. Hadn’t counted on the way he’d look after a workout, flushed skin and mussed hair and a little damp from sweat; hadn’t counted on the space he took up, in the kitchen as he cooked and cleaned, in the hall bathroom with more products than Jack really understood; hadn’t counted on the rows of cookies and pies laid out to cool on his kitchen counters .Hadn’t counted on his condo smelling of vanilla and chocolate ate cinnamon and the tang of clean sweat.

Bittle had stowed everything he’d made in containers after dinner -- the cheap plastic ones that he had Jack include in the grocery order -- and said, “You really need more cooling racks.”

Jack had nodded, and watched Bittle stack the containers. Pie for them, hand pies for the team, cookies to be sent to Lardo and Shitty and guys Bitty referred to as the frogs.

“Don’t worry,” Bittle said. “I’m saving some of the PBJ cookies for you. Tomorrow I’ll make some whole grain bread for your peanut butter sandwiches, and if I can get anyone to bring me some local fruit from the farmer’s market I’ll make some jam. Maybe MooMaw -- Aunt Connie really -- will send me some peanuts from Georgia.”

“You’re not sending your MooMaw anything?”

“Goodness, no,” Bittle said. “She can make what she likes, and have it fresh. I suspect that her missing me doesn’t extend to missing me monopolizing her kitchen.”

“I’m pretty sure she loved having you there,” Jack said, because the brief glimpses he’d had of Bittle and his MooMaw together had shown nothing but love and support.

“And I loved being there,” Bitty said. “But you know, she hardly baked anything, unless we were baking together. And she used to bake all the time.”

After, they’d watched TV from different couches in the living room. Jack offered Bittle control of the remote, and he put on a show about people who all worked in a store sort of like Target, the kind of place where you could get anything for not too much money, but none of it was very good. 

Bittle seemed to enjoy it, laughing at all the chirping among the workers and the gentle failures of the hapless manager.

“These guys remind me of my team,” Bittle said. “All the different personalities, and the way they come together.”

The characters on the show talked about sex a lot, which didn’t seem to bother Bittle, but he had been on a hockey team. The Falcs joked about sex a lot, too, but Jack usually didn’t pay attention. They were there to play hockey.

Rearranging products on store shelves was nothing like playing hockey, so Jack wasn’t entirely sure how it translated, but Jack spent more time watching Bittle than paying attention to the show anyway.

After one episode, Jack caught Bittle yawning. When Jack got the remote, he put on the first part of Ken Burns’ national parks documentary. If Jack was on his own, he might have gone for “The War,” or even “Baseball,” but “National Parks” did its job.

First Bittle chirped him. “I thought you meant ‘Parks and Rec,’” he said. “But I guess you didn’t want the Ron Swanson comparisons.”

Within twenty minutes, Bittle was dozing on the loveseat. Jack stopped the movie and considered. In different times, he could have simply picked Bittle up and carried him to his bed (whose bed?). They’d been so careful, though. Instead Jack stood up, at least six feet away, and called, “Bittle! Bittle, wake up! You need to go to sleep.”

Bittle opened one lazy eye and said, “What did you just say?”

“You’re falling asleep on the couch,” Jack said. “You should go to bed.”

“Yes, cap’n,” Bittle grumbled, but he got up and stretched, pulling the bottom of his polo shirt out of his khaki shorts, scratched at his belly and stumbled off down the hall. Jack had followed, going to his own room to strip off his jeans (finally) and put on his usual track pants and T-shirt. Then he went back to the living room and watched a while longer, hoping the scenery and music would settle his nerves. 

He slept through his alarm in the morning. He knew as soon as he opened his eyes that it was late, both by the light and the sound of Bittle singing along with Beyonce in the shower. It was the “Halo” song, one Jack heard more than once during their bake-alongs. 

Now Jack knew why Bittle didn’t sing along when they were baking. Bittle really couldn’t sing. That wasn’t fair. He was singing, and apparently enjoying it. He just couldn't sing well. He probably thought Jack couldn’t hear him. Did he even know Jack was home?

Jack turned to look at the clock. He wasn’t late for camp yet. He’d probably have to skip a shower, but he had time to make a protein shake and head out.

He stopped outside the bathroom, where Bittle had moved on to the “put a ring on it” song, the one that was all over the place when Jack was in juniors. Jack wondered if Bittle was doing the dance in the shower, half worried that he’d slip and fall, half trying not to think about a wet, naked, dancing Bittle.

Jack rapped on the door.

“Bittle!”

Bittle’s singing stopped, but Beyonce’s continued.

“Jack?”

“Yeah,” Jack said. “I, uh, I have to head out in a few minutes. Want coffee?”

“Sure,” Bittle said. “Be right out.”

Jack started the coffeemaker and then made himself a protein shake. He was drinking it at the kitchen sink when Bittle appeared, dressed and mask firmly in place.

“Sorry if I disturbed you,” he said from the doorway. 

“No,” Jack said. “I overslept. Sorry I can’t stay a little longer.”

Bittle nodded to a stack of containers at the end of the counter.

“Those have the hand pies for the guys,” he said. “Can you see they get them?”

“Of course,” Jack said. “I gave Breanna your number in case she has questions, so she might call you. I’ll text you later, okay?”

“Okay,” Bittle said. “Um, how would you feel if I rearranged a little in here?”

“That’s fine,” Jack said. “If you need anything -- like those cooling racks you mentioned -- use my debit card.”

He took it from his wallet and left it next to the coffeemaker. 

“You know the zip code here? I’ll write it down.”

“Jack, I can buy …”

“I know you can,” Jack said. “But I think I have a little more income than you just now.”

“But shouldn’t you have your debit card on you?”

“Not really,” Jack said. “I’m coming straight home. I do have a credit card for emergencies.”

It was the least Jack could do after inviting Bittle to stay and then abandoning him every day, especially when he had to basically stay quarantined in the condo.Until Jack left for the playoffs, if they happened. Unless Bittle could come with. Did he count as family?

“Really, buy anything you want for the kitchen,” Jack said. “Or, like, whatever.”

Bittle shook his head.

“If you insist,” Bittle said. “Have a good day.”

“You, too,” Jack said, picking up the containers and his travel mug of coffee. He walked around the other end of the island to get out. Bittle had pulled his mask off and was pouring himself coffee as Jack closed the front door.

The next few days followed the same pattern, with Jack and Bittle orbiting one another while they were both in the condo. Bittle usually got up early enough to see Jack off, but he didn’t shower until Jack was gone. He probably did it to have the privacy to sing at the top of his lungs, which made Jack glad his condo took up the entire floor of his building. It also meant that Bittle would be standing in the kitchen in his sleepwear, tiny shorts and soft, stretched out shirts, his cowlick sticking up at a crazy angle.

Jack went to training camp and accepted compliments on Bittle’s baking and tried to laugh along with all the jokes about all the sugar he must be getting at home.

Only Marty picked up on the way he turned away as soon as he could.

“You okay?” Marty asked. “I can tell the guys to tone it down if it’s too personal."

"No," Jack said. "I mean, it's fine. I just never realized how many double entendres they could make with baking terms. Like, how good does he knead your dough? Really? And suggesting it would be better for my diet to eat -- never mind."

"Kind of makes you wish for the stick handling jokes?"

"I wouldn't go that far," Jack said. "But the thing is, we haven't even touched each other, and it sucks. We really are being careful with the whole social distancing thing. And if I thought it was hard not knowing when we'd be able to be together, this is even harder."

"I bet it is," Marty said. "Harder, that is."

"Shut up!" Jack said, but he couldn't help laughing a little. He'd walked into that one.

Jack didn't know what Marty said, but the ribald remarks gave way to pitying looks from his teammates. At least the team knew he was being careful.

After a week of coming no closer than opposite ends of the dining table -- a table that now held stacks of empty boxes and tape in addition to the dinner Bittle had once again made -- Bittle put down his fork and said, "Do you ever feel like it will be like this forever?"

*You mean with the masks and the staying in?" Jack said. "Like nothing will ever be back to normal?"

"Kind of. Not really, though. When I go on the balcony, I look down and see people walking around. Probably not as many as before, and probably not being as careful as they should, but people are out. I mean us. Like we're doomed to always want what we can't have, even when it's so close we can see it?"

"I want it, too, bud," Jack said. "When I came home that first day and you had those running shorts on … Do you wish you hadn't come? Would it be easier if you stayed in Georgia?"

"No." Bittle answered immediately, like he didn't have to think about it. "Well, maybe easier, but not better. I really want to touch you, and that ain't gonna happen in Georgia no matter how long we wait."

"Good," Jack said. "Because I want to touch you too. I really want to kiss you, Bittle, but that would mean getting close without a mask on."

“A few more days, right?” Bittle said. 

The next day, Jack asked Mark, the trainer -- who was regularly asking about Bittle after Bittle sent muffins to the training staff -- if they could move past social distancing sooner if Bittle had a negative COVID-19 test. 

"Unfortunately, no," the trainer said. "The tests aren't reliable enough, especially in people who aren't showing symptoms. If somebody tests positive, we can be pretty certain they have it. If they test negative, they probably don't, but in your situation that's not really good enough. It looks like the tests are missing up to one in five positive cases, especially if the person isn’t showing symptoms."

"But you're testing all of us every day," Jack said.

"And all the staff," the trainer said, taking the finger clip from Jack’s hand and recording his blood oxygen level. "The idea is that with enough testing, we should pick something up sooner rather than later. We’re also checking temps and blood oxygen levels twice a day. That seems to be a key symptom that isn’t obvious -- some people are turning up sick and saying they feel fine when their oxygen levels are low. But we’d see that when you skate, too.”

“So if Bittle doesn’t have it, I shouldn’t be worried about bringing it home to him?”

Mark shrugged.

“Nothing’s a hundred percent safe,” Mark said. “It never is. But I’d say you guys are safer than the people in a hurry to go get their hair cut. At least, as long as no one here tests positive. Thank God hockey players aren’t fussy about their hair. You’re sure Btty’s being careful?”

Jack nodded.

“He hasn’t set foot outside the condo since we moved his boxes the day he got here,” Jack said. “Deliveries come to the front desk, and building staff leaves them outside the door. When he has something to send out, he leaves it outside the door and calls the concierge. I’m gonna have to triple my tipping for all the running around, but they seem to like him.”

“Paving the way with baked goods?”

“It’s like you know him,” Jack said. 

“I know his baking,” Mark said. “Look, if you wanted to get tested -- not for COVID -- I can make that happen. Privately.”

“Not even telling the team?”

“Nope,” Mark said. “Well, they’d know we ran the tests. Not the results. I’d have to go by your condo to collect samples from Bitty, but you’re already in contact with me, so it shouldn’t be an issue.”


	7. Chapter 7

“Have you thought about us getting tested?”

Bitty looked up from where he was plating the fish. “What? I thought you were getting tested every day.”

“No, not for COVID,” Jack said. “Although getting you tested for that could be a good idea.”

“Not for COVID?” Bitty said. “For … oh. I get it. You mean like …”

“STIs, yeah,” Jack said. “Mark suggested it today. I actually asked if it would help if you were tested for COVID, so we could be in closer contact sooner, but no dice. He said if you don’t have symptoms, there’s enough of a chance that you get a false negative that they’d still want us to wait out the two weeks.”

“It’s only another week,” Bitty said. “But if it doesn’t end the distancing thing sooner, why bother?”

“If it is positive, we’ll know you have it,” Jack said. “And if you’re negative, you probably don’t. Just more information. About the other -- the results would be private, Mark said. He kind of talked about it like it would be the smart thing to do.”

“What about you?’ Bitty said. “Would you get tested too?”

“Sure,” Jack said. “It’s been … at least a couple of years since I had sex with anyone. But in the interest of being prudent, yeah.”

“Jack, you know I was in college until a few months ago, right?” Bitty said, taking his plate to his end of the table and leaving Jack’s on the counter.

“Of course,” Jack said. “This isn’t about any judgment about how long it’s been since you had a partner, or how many partners you’ve had, or anything. It’s just, I want to do this right. I want to make decisions that are healthy and good for us -- for both of us. This seems like it falls into that category.”

Bitty waited until Jack had retrieved his plate and sat at the other end of the table to pick up his fork. He wanted this conversation to end, because it was awkward and embarrassing and not at all romantic, and because the last thing he wanted to think about was the Falconers staff knowing about his sex life. But it seemed like something they would have to come to an agreement on.

“What if I say no?” he said. “What would Mark say then? Would he tell you not to sleep with me? Would you listen?”

“He’d probably tell me something about using precautions and trying to be safe,” Jack said. “I don’t know. I could probably ask one of the other guys who has a more active sex life if you really want to know. Why? Are you going to say no?”

Great. Now Jack was getting snippy, and Bitty probably deserved it.

“Sorry,” he said. “It’s just embarrassing to talk about this.”

“What? Getting tested?” Jack said.

“Sex,” Bitty said. “Like planning for it, like we’re planning a vacation or … I don’t know, getting pre-approved for a mortgage or something.”

Jack ate a few bites in silence, then said, “I think that’s what adults do, bud. It doesn’t mean it can’t be romantic or anything -- and sex can probably be more spontaneous if you’re not having to worry about whether someone has condoms or whatever. My first sexual relationship was when I was a teenager, and it was … not good. Kind of a disaster in the end. I mean, the sex felt great -- we were both teenagers, after all, and getting off was getting off. But we had no idea what we were doing, with our bodies or with our emotions, and it had some really negative consequences for both of us.”

Shit. When Jack was a teenager. When he played in juniors. When he overdosed.

“I’m sorry,” Bitty apologized again. “I didn’t mean to bring up bad memories.”

“Not your fault,” Jack said. “And I want to tell you the whole story one day, but it’s not just mine to tell. One of these days, okay?”

“Okay,” Bitty said. “I think there’s something you should know about me, too. I’m … probably way less experienced than you think I am? I mean, Shitty says you get to decide what counts for losing your virginity, but I don’t know if I would say that I have. I did some making out at parties and some in my room, but other than a couple of really rushed hand jobs … yeah, no.”

“But you were out,” Jack said. “At Samwell. Why --”

“Why not?” Bitty said. “Because hockey was hard for me, especially at the beginning, and school was hard for me, and I loved taking care of my hockey boys, but there wasn’t a lot of time for a dating life, and like I told you, Ransom and Holster were terrible at setting me up, and, I don’t know, maybe I’m sappy but I wanted it to be romantic. I wanted to at least like the person.”

“Unlike the ones with the hurried hand jobs?” Jack deadpanned.

“I was usually pretty drunk for those,” Bitty said. “Anyway, I know you’re right about it being the responsible thing to do, especially since you never met me before a week ago and you have no reason to believe me about my history. We should probably do it. I just -- I’ve hardly ever talked about sex as it pertains to me with anyone, and now I’m gonna have to do it with your coworkers?”

“First, it’s not about me believing you, or you believing me,” Jack said. “It’s not about proving anything, either. It’s about getting the best information we can to make the best decisions we can. Together. And you don’t have to talk to my coworkers. Not plural. Just Mark. Think of him more as a health care provider. It might help.”

“One other thing,” Bitty said. “My insurance won’t pay for it. My parents have an HMO in Georgia, and all it’ll pay for up here is emergency care. I was hoping that’d be enough until I got a job.”

“You won’t have to pay for it,” Jack said.

“Is that because you’re going to pay for it?”

Jack shrugged. “If I have to. But I doubt it. The team wants to protect its investment in me.”

“So my health is incidental to yours?”

“Not to me,” Jack said. “But to the front office? Probably.”

Bitty considered. “That’s fair, I guess.”

“Now on to the important thing,” Jack said. “You really like me?”

Bitty might have thought it was a chirp, if Jack met his eyes when he said it.

“Yeah,” Bitty said. “I really do. And not just because you’re really hot.”

That made Jack blush. Good. He deserved to be embarrassed. And he was cute when he blushed.

“When you first started writing to me, I could tell you really cared about making a good pie, even if you didn’t really have the first idea of how to do it,” Bitty said. “And you weren’t too proud to ask for help. Then when you told me who you were, you were still trying to get better at baking. You didn’t act like, I don’t know, like it was a stupid hobby or anything. And then we spent so much time online together -- maybe people don’t tell you this enough, sweet pea, but you’re funny, and never in a mean way. You’re kind, and you’re considerate, and you act like I’m important. And, you know, you’re still insanely hot. So yeah, I really like you.”

Bitty knew it was a lie as soon as the words left his mouth, or at least an understatement. He’d been falling for Jack since that first baking date. 

Jack was pink from the collar of his Falconers T-shirt to the tips of his ears.

“You are important,” Jack said. “Not just to me. Look at your friends and your family, the way everyone always wants to talk to you. I’m sure you’d have no trouble finding a place to stay for a while if it wasn’t for the quarantine and all, so I guess that worked out for me. And you’re smart and driven and generous, and you’re insanely hot, too.”

“No one’s offering me money for pictures of me in my underwear,” Bitty said.

“They couldn’t when you were an NCAA athlete,” Jack said. “I bet they would now, if you wanted that.”

Bless Jack. He probably even believed that.

“Not really,” Bitty said. “It would feel weird.”

“It does, a bit,” Jack said. “But I guess I’ve spent so much time in locker rooms, even being interviewed and such, that it was okay. My agent said it would build my brand. She was very happy with how it worked out.”

“I’ll bet,” Bitty said.

“Wait -- did you Google those pictures? They’re like five years old.”

“Me? No,” Bitty said. “And I don’t know if Shitty had to Google them or he just had them on his phone to send to me.”

They settled into eating after that, the tension from their earlier discussion giving way to a more familiar tension. Soon. Another week. Bitty could wait.

When dinner was finished, Bitty put his plate and utensils in the dishwasher while Jack did the same. Jack sat at the table while Bitty finished the washing up.

“I wish you’d let me do that, bud,” Jack said.

“I told you, it makes more sense for me to do it,” Bitty said. “I’ve been touching everything while I cooked. No reason for you to come along after me and touch everything too.”

“But my hands would be in literal hot soapy water,” Jack said.

“Hush, you.” Bitty said. “I know you’re exhausted. I got this.”

“How much did you make today?” Jack asked. 

“Not too much,” Bitty said. “Some cookies for the families at the Ronald McDonald House, a couple of pies for that soup kitchen that’s doing to-go meals. Of course, I had to pack them as individual slices, so that took a little bit. Breanna’s really amazing, you know that? What’s his name, Ethan, from the community relations staff set me up with contacts, but Breanna’s the one who’s found the packing supplies and the couriers and everything. Whatever she gets paid, it’s not enough.”

“I’ll have to tip better,” Jack said.

“I bet you tip plenty,” Bitty said. “But yes, since I can’t afford to tip what she’s worth, you should. I also started recording today, just to get a feel for the light and all. Nothing that I’ll use. That is something I wanted to talk to you about. On the vlog, I’ll just say I’m staying with a friend. But people that know me -- like my teammates -- are going to ask where. Can I say I’m staying with you?” “Of course,” Jack said. 

Jack looked at the recording equipment stacked on the floor in the corner of the dining room.

“When did you start baking on YouTube?” he asked.

“Lord, almost as soon as I did anything on YouTube,” Bitty said. “I started it just to, I don’t know, have someone to talk to. We’d just moved, and I had to quit figure skating, and school in our new town hadn’t started, so I figured I could talk into a camera, but I needed something to talk about, and baking was the only thing I was good at. Well, besides figure skating, but I didn’t have any place to do that anymore. Surprised the heck out of me when people started watching, and then started sending questions.”

“About baking?” Jack said.

“Yes, you Canadian moose,” Bitty said. “About baking. Just like you did.”

“But you never moved in with any of them,” Jack said

“Like I said before, I like you,” Bitty said. “A lot.”

“I miss it,” Jack said. “Baking, I mean. We haven’t been able to bake together since you got here. I used to like to watch you bake, and to feel the ingredients and smell the dough, and then smell the difference when it was baking and it was done.”

“Do you want to bake tonight?” Bitty said. “I can watch you and give advice. Probably something easier than pie. What’s your mom’s favorite kind of cookie? You can make some and send them to her.”


	8. Chapter 8

Jack had one of the most intense dreams he could remember that night.

It was sexual, but not just a sex dream. It was Bittle and him and dozens of chocolate chip cookies, and he was trying to talk Bittle into going to bed.

Dream-Jack was hard, and he knew Dream-Bittle was hard, and Jack wanted to go down on him for the first time, to show him how good it would be. But Bittle kept putting Jack off, saying he had one more tray of cookies to put in the oven, and then one more tray after that, until Dream-Jack offered to just blow Dream-Bittle in the kitchen.

Which, now that he was awake, didn’t sound like such a bad idea to Jack, who was indeed hard. He thought about while he stroked himself. He’d put a towel or oven mitts or something on the floor to protect his knees, and tug those little shorts down … 

In the dream, he’d been frustrated, because he wanted Bittle so much, and Bittle was right there, and Jack couldn’t have him the way he wanted. No great mystery where that came from.

Jack groaned and decided to take a cold shower before getting up and making coffee.

The coffeemaker was clean and ready to go, and all the dishes were clean, but Jack bumped into a stack of baking sheets that Bittle had left on the counter next to the oven and nearly sent them clattering to the floor when he reached into the cabinet for the coffee. 

The blender was loud, but Bittle was showering, so Jack made his protein shake -- a real breakfast would be waiting at the training facility -- and went to the table to check his email and read the news on his laptop.

Or he would have, if his laptop was charged. He must have left it out yesterday, and Bittle unplugged the charger to plug something else in.

Jack picked up his computer, narrowly avoided tripping over a cord that trailed from a light Bittle left in the heap of equipment on the floor, and took the laptop to the office to plug it in. This room, at least, was in order. Or it was as soon as Jack rearranged the free weights on the floor in the order he preferred and set the family photos in a straighter row. Why were they asakew, anyway?.

Bittle was stumbling out of his room when Jack headed back to the kitchen, so Jack hung back and waited until Bittle had made his way into the bathroom and closed the door.

Crisse. Bittle’s shorts -- if he was wearing any -- weren’t even visible under the hem of his T-shirt. How could Jack be so annoyed and so turned on at the same time?

Whether it was the clutter or the sexual frustration or an overload of sugar and fat in his diet, Bittle seemed determined to kill him one way or another.

Jack poured his coffee into a travel cup and then filled a mug for Bittle, setting out the cream and sugar and a spoon next to it. Then he picked up his bag and left. He wanted time to talk to Mark instead of rushing through his morning check-in.

By the time he got to the facility, he had a string of texts from Bitty.

_Thanks for the coffee!_

_I was hoping to see you to say good morning, but I guess I missed you, so Good Morning!_

_Text me your parents address and I can send the cookies to your mom. Unless you wanted to write a note to go with them? They can keep another day in an airtight container. Or I could send them and you could call or email her or something to let her know they’re on the way._

Ugh The cookies. After his dream, Jack really didn’t even want to think about them. He’d made them last night, the whole process not taking more an hour, while Bittle directed him and chattered on about how half butter and half shortening worked best because teh cookies had flavor but weren’t so flat, unless of course you liked a flat, crisp cookie, but chocolate chips cookies should have some height to them … Jack had learned more than he had ever realize there was to know about the way cookies came together.

 _You can go ahead and send the cookies,_ he texted back as he walked inside. He found his parents’ address in his contacts and shared that Bittle, then wrote, _I’ll text her and let her know they’re coming._

He dropped his bag outside the trainer’s room and peered inside. Marty was getting his vitals checked, so Jack waited in the hallway and texted Bittle again. 

_I plugged my computer in on the desk. Please don’t unplug it today._

Marty came out, mask in place, nodded at Jack and headed for the locker room.

Jack took his place in the trainer’s room, where Mark was washing his hands and putting on fresh gloves.

“I, uh, talked to Bittle last night and he agreed about the testing,” Jack said.

“Good,” Mark said, holding the thermometer up to Jack’s forehead and clipping the pulse oximeter to his finger. “I can probably get over there today to get samples. Can you give me his number? That way I can call when I get some free time.”

Jack sent the number to Mark while Mark was recording Jack’s temperature and oxygen level on the chart.

“Good,” Mark said. “Now you know the drill. I’m going to stick this up your nose.”

Marty was lacing his skates when Jack made it to the locker room. None of the other guys were there yet, which was fine with Jack. Maybe a little quiet time on the ice before practice started would clear his head.

“You okay?” Marty asked, as Jack started stripping out of his street clothes. “You’re here early.”

“I’m always here early.”

“Not this early,” Marty said. “Not since Bittle got here.”

“I told you, we’re not --”

“I know you’re being careful,” Marty said. “But that doesn’t mean you can’t have a cup of coffee six feet apart and make heart eyes at each other.”

“Shut up,” Jack said. “We’re not like that.”

“Jack, bud, I’ve been on maybe half a dozen Zoom calls with both of you, and I’m here to tell you you definitely are like that. It’s a little sickening.”

“Fuck off,” Jack said, but with no heat. “What are you doing here so early?”

“Noelle was up all night with an ear infection,” Marty said. “I had to get out of there. I don’t know how Gabby does it sometimes, when the girls are crying and nothing’s going right. It gets a little insane. And I wanted to let Mark know Gabby’s taking the girls to the pediatrician today, quarantine or not.”

“The girls? Are they both sick?”

“No, you doofus, but you can’t leave a three-year-old home alone, and we’re quarantined, so we can’t have a babysitter, and I have to be here,” Marty said. “It would be different if she were seriously ill, but Noelle gets these a few times a year.”

“Oh.”

Jack finished tying his skates and headed for the rink, where the ice was pristine, smooth and uncluttered. No wonder he’d always done his best thinking on skates.

Marty stepped on the ice right behind him, and they skated circles and figure-eights and generally warmed up. 

“So, it’s going okay with you and Bitty?” Marty said when they were out in the middle of the ice, out of anyone’s hearing. “He hasn’t, I don’t know, flushed all your protein powder down the toilet? “No,” Jack said. “Nothing like that. He sings in the shower. Badly. And he leaves his stuff all over. But I can tell he’s trying to be considerate.”

“Yeah?”

“I mean, he makes dinner every night, and it’s _good,”_ Jack said. “And within our nutrition guidelines. And he cleans up dinner, and all the baking …”

“So he’s not a slob?” Marty said. 

“Define slob,” Jack said. “No, that’s not fair. It’s just, the video equipment and the baking equipment and he didn’t put the weights back right. And he’s always _there._ As soon as I get home, he’s talking to me.”

“You mean he follows you into the bathroom while you shower?” Marty said. “Noelle used to do that. So did Gabby, come to think of it, but I liked that.”

“Dirty old man,” Jack said. “No, of course not. Not while we have to stay distanced.”

“So his stuff -- including him -- is always in your place,” Marty said. “Isn’t that what you wanted? And of course he’s always there. Part of the deal, if I recall, is that he would keep to strict quarantine rules to minimize the risk to you, even though everything is opening up. Seems like that might be hard on him.”

The rest of their workout group were trickling onto the ice, so Jack and Marty separated, concentrating on maintaining distance. They breathed in the familiar chemical smell of the ice through their face shields, letting their blades carry them above the now marked-up surface.

Tater skated up behind Jack.

“How is Bitty baker?” he asked. “He promised me a blueberry pie. Is he making it today?”

“I don’t know, Tater,” Jack said, backing away to make sure there was six feet of distance between them. “I didn’t get a chance to talk to him before I left today. I do know he’s aware you want one.”

“Okay,” Tater said. “Tell him the price doesn’t matter. Just tell me how much.”

Wait. Had Bitty been charging people all along? Jack didn’t think so.

He went to his car during his lunch break to call Bitty, since all the quiet corners players used to use private conversations had been put off limits.

“Hey, Bittle,” Jack said. “I’m just checking in. How’s your day?”

Jack could hear the hum of the mixer in the background as Bitty said, “You know. Okay, I guess.”

That didn’t sound like a ringing endorsement, but Jack pressed on.

“Tater asked if you were making him a blueberry pie.”

“As a matter of fact, that is on the list for today,” Bittle said. “You can deliver it tomorrow if you don’t mind.”

“Sure,” Jack said. “He also said something about paying you … have you been charging people for all this stuff?”

“Oh, no, sweetpea, that was all sort of ‘welcome to the neighborhood’ gifts, although I guess I’m welcoming myself to the neighborhood.”

“Haha, yeah.”

“But when Tater texted and asked for the pie, he offered to pay for it, and I didn’t really know what to say,” Bittle said. “I mean, I’d be happy to make it for free, but the ingredients do cost money, even if you paid for them, and maybe this could be sort of a job. Like, I’d have to do something else, but I could bake on the side? But if you think I shouldn’t take his money, just say so.”

“It’s fine to let Tater pay you,” Jack said. “Maybe that will help control his pie intake.”

“That’s good, because Gabby St.Martin called me about a birthday cake for Claire, and she wanted to pay me, too,” Bittle said.

“Good,” Jack said. “But maybe let me pay for that one? As a present to them?”

“But Jack, you’ve already paid for everything, including the mixer,” Bittle said. “I’d say it could be a present from me, but maybe a present from us.”

“From us,” Jack said. “That sounds nice. Did you hear from anyone else today?”

“A couple of food pantries,” Bittle said. “And a soup kitchen. Oh, and your trainer, Mark. He’s going to stop by in an hour or so.”

“Okay, bud,” Jack said. “I gotta go. See you later, okay?”

“Sure, Jack,” Bittle said. “Don’t forget to text your mom.”

Jack returned for the off-ice workouts set for the afternoon, and then waited in the hall outside Mark’s office for his turn to be checked out.

Marty was waiting ahead of him.

“How’s Noelle?” Jack asked.

“Better,” Marty said. “That first dose of amoxicillin does wonders.”

“Um, Bittle said Gabby called about buying a cake from him for Claire’s birthday,” Jack said. “He wants to make it, but we thought maybe it could be a present from us.”

“Joint presents now?” Marty raised an eyebrow. 

“I’ll still get her a present besides,” Jack said. “I have to maintain my status as favorite hockey uncle somehow.”

“Just no drums,” Marty said. “Or things with small pieces. Legos kill your feet.”

“Can’t you just make sure everything gets put away?”

Marty laughed.


	9. Chapter 9

Bitty padded into the kitchen, wearing socks under his slides because it might be July, but Jack always kept the condo on the chilly side.

No, more than that, it was downright cold. 

As soon as Jack left, Bitty could turn the air conditioner down and open the sliding door to the balcony to get some fresh air in the place. It had been worse the first few days, before Bitty figured out how to work the thermostat. It was one of the many ways Breanna had been helpful.

Bitty spotted his mug on the counter, and looked to the dining room to thank Jack for pouring his coffee and setting out the cream and sugar. The table was empty. Jack’s laptop, which Bitty was pretty sure was there when he was talking Jack through chocolate chip cookies last night, was also gone, and Jack’s bag and shoes weren’t by the door.

The coffee was still steaming, but not piping hot like it had just come from the pot. So Jack had poured it maybe five minutes ago? Maybe a little more? Not more than ten minutes.

Jack had to have known Bitty was in the shower -- he had to walk by the hall bathroom on his way to the kitchen -- and he’d poured the coffee and then left?

Bitty knew he’d been churlish and prickly when they talked about STI testing, but he thought they’d recovered. Bitty had shared some history, Jack had been understanding, if a bit curious, and then Jack had seemed to enjoy making the cookies.

He didn’t say much while they were baking, but that wasn’t unusual. Was it?

Maybe Jack’s early departure had nothing to do with Bitty. Maybe he had an errand to run. (But Jack, like the rest of the team -- and Bitty -- were supposed to be observing strict quarantine.) Maybe he had to be at the training facility early. 

Bitty texted Jack a thanks for the coffee and what he hoped came across as a cheery “good morning,” instead of as a passive-aggressive “Why did you leave without speaking to me?”

Well, if ever a morning called for carbs, this was it. He measured flour, baking powder and salt into a bowl, added milk, an egg, some oil and a drop of vanilla.

Then he heated the skillet and texted Breanna.

_There’ll be pancakes outside the door in 10 min_

He had just put the first one on when his eyes lit on the container of chocolate chip cookies, so he texted Jack to ask where to send them. Or maybe Jack would want to enclose a note?

He flipped the pancake, got out a plate for Breanna, and looked at his phone when it buzzed again with a text from Jack.

Well, that solved the mystery of where Jack’s laptop had gone. Was that what Jack was so pissy about? That his laptop wasn’t charged? When he’d only use it to read headlines for ten minutes anyway?

Bitty took the pancake off and started another and tried to remember. Maybe Jack had left it plugged in in the dining room, but maybe not. Bitty honestly couldn’t remember unplugging it, and Jack usually left it charging in the office. There was no way to know for sure.

He arranged Breanna’s three pancakes on the plate, added a pat of butter and a small cup of maple syrup, and covered it with another plate before setting it outside the door.

He was just cooking a second pancake when he heard the knock and Breanna’s voice saying, “Thanks, Bitty! I’ll bring the dishes back later.”

That was his breakfast date, and the closest thing he was going to get to face-to-face interaction before Jack got home.

Bitty checked his email while he waited. He had responses from a few more places he’d contacted about donating baked goods, so he’d have to add those to his schedule.

Bitty washed his dishes and the prep dishes and started pulling ingredients for his list of projects when his phone rang with an unfamiliar number with a Providence area code. He normally didn’t answer calls if he didn’t know the caller, but how many people knew he was in Rhode Island? (Except for all the data trackers keeping tabs on his phone, his brain unhelpfully added.)

“Hello?”

“Hi, Eric,” the man said. “This is Mark Thomas, the trainer for the Falconers. Jack said he talked to you last night about getting some testing done. I have some time after lunch today if you’re not busy.”

“Today?”

Good Lord, that was fast. Somehow, Bitty hadn’t expected it to be today.

“Yes,” Mark said. “I have a free hour, and the sooner it’s done … anyway, I assume you’ll be home. Is it a good time?”

“Um, sure,” Eric said. “Anything I have to do to prepare?”

“No, it’s easy,” Mark said. “I’ll need a urine sample and a blood sample. And if you want a COVID test, a nasal swab. Everything will go to the lab this evening, and I’ll have results from the swab tonight and the rest tomorrow.”

“Oh, okay,” Eric said. “I guess that’s fine. I’ll let the building people know to let you up.”

“Thanks,” Mark said. “See you in a bit.”

When the call ended, Bitty stared at his phone for a moment, then found Shitty’s contact and hit the call button.

“Hey, Shitty,” Bitty said.

“Bitty, brah, long time, no talk, and you’re only like an hour away,” Shitty said. “But that care package was huge. How is it living in the temple of the ice god?”

“Haha,” Bitty said. “Fine, I guess. He does keep it awfully cold in here.”

“See? I knew it,” Shitty said. “But everything else is okay?”

“Shitty, you should see the kitchen,” Bitty said. “It’s amazing. I have baked so much. I’ll be recording for the vlog probably by the end of the week.”

“It’s amazing?” Shitty said. “Not ‘he’s amazing’?”

“Jack’s great, Shitty,” Bitty said. “Did I tell y’all he bought the six-quart Kitchen-Aid? And I have the guest room and guest bathroom and he really tried to make me comfortable.”

“I’ll take it as granted that the six-quart Kitchen-Aid should impress me,” Shitty said. “But he tried to make you comfortable? Are you not comfortable, and is he not still trying?”

“Shitty, I’m living with a man that a short few months ago I would have hung on my wall and fantasized over, and I can’t touch him,” Bitty said. “And the looks he gives me … of course I’m not comfortable.”

“But is that the only problem?” Shitty said. “Because you sound more frazzled than thirsty, if you know what I mean.”

“It’s not like he’s done anything,” Bitty said.

“So what hasn’t he done?”

“Nothing,” Bitty said. “He’s just gone all day, which I knew was going to happen, and I have to be strictly quarantined, which I knew was going to happen, and I look outside and there are people walking around and eating on restaurant patios and I’m stuck in here.”

“So … like Beauty once she kind of likes the Beast but he hasn’t let her go yet?”

“No!” But Bitty giggled despite himself. “He’s not a beast and none of this is his fault. I think it’s kind of grating on him, too, me being here every minute. It’s a lot. And now the team trainer is coming over and he’ll be the first person I’ve seen face-to-face who isn’t Jack in over a week and he’s giving me COVID and STI tests, and I’m still not sure how I feel about that.”

“First, you know they can’t do any tests without your consent, right?” Shitty said.

“Yes,” Bitty said.

“Second, that seems … pretty responsible, honestly. I assume Jack’s getting tested, too.”

“Yes, he is, and I know that it’s responsible,” Bitty said. “It’s just …”

“I mean, you are intending to have a sexual relationship with him at some point?” Shitty asked.

“Yes,” Bitty said. “It’s just … embarrassing to talk about.”

“Then less talk and more action?” Shhitty said. “Once it’s determined to be safe, of course.”

“Shut up.”

“And kiss you? Jack might be jealous.”

Bitty couldn’t help but laugh at that. “Lardo, too, I suppose. Wait— I have another call coming in. Talk soon?”

“Sure, Bits,” Shitty said. “Take care of yourself.”

Bitty clicked over to the other call, from another unfamiliar Rhode Island number.

“Hello?”

“Hello, is this Eric Bittle?” said a female voice that had an accent similar to Jack’s.

“Um, yes? Who’s this?”

“I’m Gabrielle St. Martin, and I’m afraid I’ve been terribly remiss in calling you to welcome you to Providence.”

“Gabrielle --”

“Call me Gabby. Everyone does. And can I call you Bitty? I feel like I know you after the Falconers’ bake-off”

“--St. Martin. And yes, of course. Hey, Marty said the bake-off thing was your idea. It was great! Thanks.”

“I might have had the concept, but you made it happen,” Gabby said. “You did such a good job! And I’ve never seen Jack so happy as he was when he was interacting with you. I’m glad you’re here. Normally, when someone on the team has a partner move in, the rest of us have a little gathering to welcome them, but since I couldn’t plan anything ... I still should have called sooner.”

“Partner?” Bitty said. “It might be a little soon to throw words like that around. We met for the first time eight days ago.”

“Now, that’s not really true, is it?” Gabby said. “Maybe that’s the first time you were together in person, but you spent a lot of time together online. And I know if you could teach Jack to bake, you must be truly talented. Which leads to the second reason for my call. My daughter, Claire, has a birthday next week. Would you be able to make a cake? It will just be a family party, so it needn’t be big, but here’s the thing: She wants mermaids and hockey.”

“Mermaids and hockey?” Bitty said, “I can probably pull some kind of decoration together. What flavor cake?”

“The cake itself doesn’t matter so much, but she likes strawberry filling,” Gabby said.

“Alright, mermaids and hockey, strawberry filling for Claire, who is turning --”

“Four.”

“Four years old. When do you need it?”

“Monday, if that works. Let me know how much you charge.”

“Monday’s fine,” Bitty said. “But I don’t charge people --”

“You should,” Gabby said. “Don’t undervalue yourself. So come up with what you think is a fair price and let me know.”

“Okay, I guess. Tater wanted to pay me for a pie, but I don’t know. I’ve made things for charity bake sales, of course, but I’ve never just charged people.”

“You’ll figure it out,” Gabby said.

Bitty got off the phone and started looking online at cakes with hockey and mermaid themes. There were a fair number of both, but none combined. Maybe an undersea rink?

Crap. It was already well past eleven, and he hadn’t made a thing except pancakes. Tater wanted his blueberry pie, and Bitty hadn’t sent anything to Ransom and Holster since he’d been here, and the soup kitchen at the episcopal church was expecting cupcakes …

Bitty got the tablet of paper from next to the phone Jack still had in his kitchen and made a list. Cupcakes first. He could start the pie (maybe two pies?) while they were in the oven, then start some cookies for R and H. By the time the cupcakes were ready to frost, the cookies could be in the oven. The pies would go in last, because Jack would take those tomorrow to the rink. Everything else would be out the door late this afternoon with a courier (God bless Breanna for finding these people), who would drop the cookies for Jack’s mother and Ransom and Holster at the post office and the cupcakes at the soup kitchen. Then he could get his workout in, shower before Jack came home, and get started with dinner prep.

Bitty hooked his phone up to the bluetooth speaker that had found a home on the shelf over the sink and got to work, creaming butter and sugar, sifting dry ingredients, lining muffin tins with paper cups … and the phone rang again.

This time it was Jack, calling to check in, and check if he understood correctly that Tater was paying for pie. Jack seemed fine with it, although he wanted Claire St. Martin’s birthday cake to be a gift, which was fine by Bitty. He’d make it special.

Bitty went back to his work, this time dancing and singing to the 80s power ballads that he had found Jack liked.

He had the cupcakes out, the cookies in and was weaving a lattice on pie number one when a firm knock interrupted him, wailing at full throttle along with Whitestripe to “Is This Love.”

What? Mark wasn’t supposed to turn up until after lunch. It was only … 1:48. 

Bitty quickly washed his hands, fixed a mask over his face and opened the door to a man holding the dishes he’d left for Breanna, now clean.

“I think these are for you,” the man said. “Or at least, that’s what the woman downstairs said.

“Yes,” Bitty said. “I made her breakfast. Um, sorry, I lost track of time. You must be Mark. Come in.”

Bitty took the dishes and stepped away from the door, heading for the kitchen.

“I was working on a pie,” he said.

Mark was standing just inside the dining area, looking over the counter.

“You’ve been busy,” he said.

Bitty shrugged. “Gives me something to do. Do you mind if I finish this real quick? It won’t take but a minute.”

“I think I have a minute,” Mark said, taking a seat and rummaging in the bag he carried.

It ended up being more like ten minutes, because the cookies needed to come out, then Bitty decided to finish the other pie so both could start baking, and Mark just sat and watched and made polite conversation.

“How do you like Providence?” Mark asked.

“It seems pretty, what I can see of it,” Bitty said.

“You and Jack met over your baking, right?” Mark said.

Bitty sneaked a look at Mark while he folded his lattice strips back. The man reminded him of Coach -- the same middle-age, used-to-be-an-athlete trying-to-stay-in-shape physique, the same athletic wardrobe.

“Right. He ran across a pie crust tutorial I put up -- just what I’m doing now, actually -- and wanted to try it,” Bitty said. “He found out it wasn’t as easy as it looked, but he was determined to get it right. He sent me a picture of his first effort, and I responded and we must have been going back and forth, oh, a few times before he explained who he was. By that time, he knew I’d played hockey, too.”

“A match made in heaven,” Mark said.

Bitty giggled uneasily. “I don’t know about that,” he said. “On YouTube, maybe.”

“Well, the team is glad you’re here,” Mark said. “I was kind of surprised that Georgia Martin didn’t try to stop Jack from having you move in, but it seems like it’s working out. Must be hard on you, though, to be cooped up in here.”

Bitty took a deep breath in, and then out. This wasn’t Coach, and he wasn’t being tested on anything. Probably. Oh, God, tested. Haha.

“Yes, it’s wearing,” he said. “But it’s only until y’all leave for the hub city, right? Then I can go out as long as I’m careful, because by the time Jack’s back y’all’s season will be over one way or another.”

“You weren’t planning to join the families?” Mark asked. “They’ll be coming for the third round, assuming we make it that far.”

Bitty stared.

“I’m not Jack’s family,” he finally said.

“Neither are any number of girlfriends or fiancees,” Mark answered. “Not technically. The criteria we’re using is sharing a home.”

“This isn’t my legal residence,” Bitty said. “Legally, I still live in Georgia.”

“Are you moving back?”

“No, sir.”

“Good enough for me,” Mark said. “That’s if we end up going at all. You’ve heard some teams have had players test positive?”

Bitty nodded.

“Well, plans are progressing, but between you and I, I wouldn’t be surprised if they got scrapped for safety reasons.”

“Jack said before all this that he thought there wouldn’t be any more hockey this year,” Bitty said. “Good thing he stayed in shape.”

“That’s never really been an issue for Jack, has it?” Mark asked.

Bitty didn’t know how to answer that, and Mark didn’t seem to expect an answer anyway, so he just slid the pies into the oven.

“Okay, I have a little time before I have to pack up the other things for the courier,” Bitty said. “What do I have to do?”

“First, let me get this on,” Mark said, tugging a plastic face shield down so the band was level over his eyebrows. “And I’m going to sanitize my hands and put on gloves. You come sit here and I’m going to take your temperature and pulse ox to be sure they’re normal, then take a blood sample.”

There was a pinch, and blood filled the test tube.

“There. Now take your mask down,” Mark said, holding a long swab. “This is a little uncomfortable.”

The swab went far enough back that Bitty felt like it was rubbing against his brain.

“Done. Now take these and get a urine sample,” Mark said. “You know how to get a sample?”

“Yessir,” Bitty said, memories of NCAA drug tests coming to the surface. “You don’t have to make sure I don’t switch samples or anything?”

“You’re doing this voluntarily,” Mark said. “You’re not wasting your time here, are you?”

“No, sir.”

Bitty ran the water in the sink while he unscrewed the cap of the cup. He peed in the cup and then finished in the toilet. When he was done, he screwed the cap on, wiped the outside with toilet paper in case there was a drip, sealed it in the plastic bag Mark had given him, flushed and washed his hands.

“Here,” he said, returning to the dining room.

“Thanks,” Mark said, stowing the cup. “I hope I get to see you again soon.”

“Oh, wait,” Bitty said. “The cupcakes are spoken for, but take a few cookies.”

He put several in a bag, followed Mark at a safe distance to the door, and said goodbye. 

On the whole, he decided, he preferred going to the doctor instead of having a housecall. That was just way too awkward.

He turned his attention to packing the cupcakes securely for transport.


	10. Chapter 10

Jack opened the door to heavenly smells, a counter full of drying baking equipment and Bittle’s laptop open on the table. The only actual baked goods he saw were two blueberry pies on cooling racks.

The speaker was gone from above the sink, and there was music -- something with a pronounced beat -- coming from down the hall.

Jack headed that direction, ducking into his room to drop his bag. Then he stopped at the door of the office and … made a conscious effort to close his mouth.

The music was loud, and Bittle was facing away, towards the TV over the desk, which had some show with closed captions on. Bittle was on the padded part of the floor, holding a 20-pound dumbbell over each shoulder, squatting and then standing and pressing the weights up. 

When he sank into the squat, his bottom pushed straight toward Jack. When he stood and pressed up, Jack could see the muscles in his back and shoulders move under his tank top.

Jack cleared his throat.

“Uh, Bittle?”

Bittle startled and nearly dropped the weights before turning.

“Sorry!” he said. “I’m almost done. I’ll be out of your way in a minute.”

“You’re not in my way,” Jack said. “Take your time. How about I go start dinner?”

Bittle grabbed his mask from the desk and resumed his squats, facing Jack now. “You don’t have to do that. I have some chicken thighs defrosting and …”

“Will they keep until tomorrow?” Jack asked.

“They should, but nothing else is ready to be cooked -- unless you want Bagel Bites, and no. Just no.”

“I have a drawerful of takeout menus and you’ve cooked every night since you got here,” Jack said. “What do you say to supporting a local business? Do you like Indian food?”

“Ugh,” Bittle said. “I hate you. It’s like you know the things I missed most when I was in Georgia. I mean, there’s plenty of good places around Atlanta and Athens, but nothing close enough for delivery in Madison.”

“Indian it is. Anything you hate? Or can’t live without?”

“Get a vindaloo?” 

“Sure,” Jack said. “Just let me grab my computer.”

Bittle had moved on to a set of lunges as Jack moved around him to take the computer from his desk.

“Sorry about that, too,” Bittle said. “I don’t remember unplugging it, but maybe I did.”

“No big deal,” Jack said. “I should have brought it back here anyway. A place for everything and everything its place, eh?”

Bittle leveled a deadpan look at him.

“You sound like my mother.”

“Well, she must be a smart woman to have raised you.”

Bittle laughed hard enough to break form.

“Patient, maybe,” he said. “And she is smart, but I’m not sure I’m the best evidence of that.”

Bittle did another lunge, knee almost but not quite touching the floor, a bicep curl while he was down, then stood smoothly. He could probably use more weight, but he had been alone when he started the workout, so he probably didn’t want to push himself, and he didn’t have games coming up to train for.

“I’m sorry I keep leaving my things around,” he said. “I planned to get in the kitchen and put everything away. I know it bothers you.”

“It’s fine,” Jack said.

Bittle just looked at him.

“Or, if it’s between having you and your stuff here and not having you and your stuff here, I’d rather have you here,” Jack said. “Maybe we just need more storage. Anyway, I’m going to order food.”

He took the laptop to the dining room and put in an order, then started looking at shelves and cabinets online. It would help if he had any real idea of what would look best, but he didn’t want to ask his mother. Adding furniture might make her think this was permanent. Which he hoped it was, but it was too soon to count on that.

Then there was the idea that maybe Bittle could join him for the third round. Jack hadn’t been sure if it would be allowed. The guidelines players received this week seemed to say that if the person was living with them in Providence, they would be allowed to travel. But would Bittle even want to? It would mean continuing the strict quarantine, something that would end once Jack left if Bittle wasn’t coming to the hub city. Once Bittle got there, he probably would not have access to a kitchen to bake. And with the reports of players testing positive -- none in Providence so far, knock wood -- he might be at higher risk than he would be staying home, and able to go to a coffee shop or out for a run or even look for a job. 

But … if the Falconers made it to the second round, and if Bittle wanted to join Jack, they would be able to touch. Jack could come back to the hotel after practices and games and hug Bittle, and give him a kiss goodbye when he left, curl up in bed with him to watch TV and … sex was something they’d have to figure out, but Jack definitely wanted it. It just seemed like he would be asking Bittle to sacrifice a lot.

“Did you order?” 

Bittle was there, resplendent with damp hair curling behind his ears, skin pink from exercise and hot water, fresh mask and clean clothes.

“Yeah,” Jack said. “It should be here soon. Want some iced tea? Or a beer?”

“I’ll get it,” Bitty said. “You want anything?”

Jack held up his water bottle.

“I’m good.”

Bittle poured himself a glass of sweet tea from the pitcher he kept in the fridge and sat down at what Jack now thought of as Bittle’s end of the table, fiddling with his phone. 

He looked up at Jack and said, “Can I ask you something?”

“Sure.”

“How long have you known that I could come to the playoff city?”

“For sure? I guess I didn’t, really,” Jack said. “The last memo we got made me think probably you could, but I haven’t cleared it with anyone. That was a couple of days ago. Why? Did Mark say something?”

“He seemed surprised that I was talking about going out more once you left,” Bittle said. “He said he thinks the guidelines mean I could go, but of course that’s up to you.”

“Oh,” Jack said, feeling a little sick at Bittle’s obvious mortification. He should have told Bittle sooner, he knew that, but that would mean more awkward conversations. “I’m sorry. I wanted to see if it would get any clearer before I asked you. But it’s not up to me -- it’s up to both of us. You might not want to come even if you can.”

“Why not?”

“You’d have to stay quarantined here for the first two rounds, before families come, and I won’t be here, so you’d really be alone,” Jack said. “Instead of being able to get out and explore as soon as I go. And once you got there we’d be in a hotel, so no kitchen. Unless it’s one of those weekly places, but even then it’s a small oven if you’re lucky. And you’d still be quarantined. I’m not sure it would be worth it for you. Maybe it’s not something you should decide until after next week.”

“After next week?”

“When we can stop with the distancing thing?” Jack said.

“Oh,” Bittle said. He took a deep breath and blew it out. “Let me get this straight: You think I would choose being able to go to the grocery store and bake in your kitchen over spending time with you. And even if I’m inclined to think you’re crazy for thinking that -- and I am a little insulted that you think that, to be honest -- you also think I should wait until after we sleep together to be sure? Are you afraid I’ll suck in bed?”

Bittle paused, clearly rewinding his words in his head.

“Wait. Scratch that. Are you afraid I’ll be bad in bed?”

The joke at least gave Jack a second to regroup.

“I’m not afraid of that,” Jack said. “Not even a little.”

“Then why --”

“Maybe you won’t like it,” Jack said. “I mean, just the thought of you sucking me off gets me … and I’d love to do the same to you. But you’ve never done that, right? So how do you know that’s something you’ll want? Maybe you’ll hate it.”

Bittle spluttered.

“I highly doubt that,” he finally said. “I mean, you knew when we agreed to do this that I thought you were attractive.”

Jack raised a skeptical eyebrow.

Bittle flushed even redder than he already was and said, “Fine, I thought you were hot, okay? And then we got to know each other online and you were so sweet, too. A little … awkward, maybe, but not snooty or cold, and you were interested in what I had to say, and you introduced me to your team, and they were lovely to me as well. And they love you so much. You should know that. But you were almost too good to be true. And I get here, and it is true. But I still can’t touch you, so what do I do? I bake my feelings and leave a trail of stuff around your apartment and generally get in the way, and I know it annoys you and I try but it’s not enough and I can’t quite see why you’d be interested in me. I mean, who would be? I’m a college graduate with no marketable skills besides baking and talking on the internet. And you’re busy with training camp and getting ready for your actual job, and what am I doing bsides taking up space?”

Jack had stopped himself from interrupting half a dozen times during Bittle’s speech, and he waited a moment to make sure he was done before speaking himself.

“First, you might be the only person ever to call me sweet,” Jack said. “Except my mother. Most people … are disappointed when they meet me in person. I never know the right thing to say. But with you, it’s not hard. And when I say I like you, I wish you’d believe me.”

“Aw, sweetpea, I wish it were that easy,” Bittle said. “I believe you mean it when you say it. I don’t think you’re lying to me. But I feel like you’ll come to your senses sooner or later and decide I’m more trouble than I’m worth.”

“You’re not, and I won’t,” Jack said, his posture stiffening. “And you know how stubborn I am. I admit that having you here has been an adjustment, I’m sure more for you than for me. I’m not used to having to come home and make conversation, or to make room for things that aren’t mine. If I haven’t made you feel welcome, I apologize.”

“No --”

“I let you talk,” Jack said. “Now it’s my turn. I want you here, and I want you to be comfortable here. I want to be comfortable with you here, too, and I’m working on that. Us having a sexual relationship is not a condition for any of that. But I also want you to know that I want that, so if you do too, that’s something we can try. I also think you are objectively attractive -- hot, I guess. When I got to know you, I saw how kind and generous you are, how you take care of people, and how courageous and strong you are. I don’t know why you don’t see that. Do you know how many people you’ve provided dessert for since you got to Providence?”

He stopped for a sip of water.

“I think this would be easier if I could just show you how much I want you, but I can’t,” Jack said. “And it seems like it would be foolish on your part to agree to travel halfway across the country with me for weeks until you know what you’re getting into.”

Bittle gave him a smug little smile.

“Joke’s on you, Mr. Zimmermann,” he said. “I already did travel halfway across the country to be with you, with no idea of what I was getting into. It’s working so far. Even if we have to work harder at using our words than either of us likes.”

A knock came at the door.

“Food’s here,” Jack said. “I’ll get it.”

Once the food containers were disinfected, the food portioned and eaten and the plates and cutlery washed up, Jack headed for his usual spot on the couch.

“So who’s this Ron Swanson guy?” he asked. “On ‘Parks and Rec’??

“Wait,” Bittle said. “Before you sit down, could you do something for me?”

“What?”

“Go change,” Bittle said. “You never wore jeans in all the time we baked together before I moved here. Now you wear jeans and work pants all the time, and at first I thought it was just because of training camp, but if you’re trying to get comfortable with having me around, then do it. Get comfortable.Don’t feel like you have to dress up in your own home for me.”

“But you always wear --”

“I was raised by my MooMaw and my Mama to never be seen less than well-turned-out,” Bitty said. “I would never appear in public -- and that includes in front of random guests who just pop by and video calls -- without being properly dressed. But I’m used to it. I’m also used to the way my boys dressed -- or in Shitty’s case, didn’t dress -- at Samwell. You won’t offend me by wearing track pants or basketball shorts. Or even Wonder Woman briefs and nothing else, which was Shitty’s loungewear of choice.”

“I’m not a random guest,” Jack said. “I live here. So do you. So you should be comfortable, too.”

“I guess you have seen me in my PJs,” Bittle said. “Fine. We’ll both change.”

That led to Jack, far more relaxed, taking control of the remote while Bitty curled up on the other couch in his tiny shorts and stretched out Samwell T-shirt.

“So,” Bittle said, a sly grin playing on his face. “You never finished your sentence before. The thought of me sucking you off gets you what?”


	11. Chapter 11

It was delightfully easy to fluster Jack.

For someone who had been in locker rooms since he could walk, Jack seemed remarkably unprepared for Bitty to make suggestive comments. When Bitty got outright sexual, he turned adorable shades of pink.

Bitty had apologized the first time, after their conversation about both wanting to have sex. He didn’t want to step over the line, especially when Jack had opened up and acknowledged that he was having a hard time being comfortable with Bitty always there, a topic they’d revisited a few times.

(“So, what, you miss being able to fart in the living room?” Bitty asked. “Gross,” Jack said. “But true.”)

So maybe the last thing Bitty should be doing was deliberately riling Jack up.

“I can, just, not,” Bitty told him, after apologizing for one more joke about blue balls. “But I feel like maybe it would help if you knew I’m actively thinking about jumping your bones pretty much all the time. Maybe then you wouldn’t feel guilty about thinking about it too.”

“I don’t feel guilty,” Jack said. “Well, maybe a little? I mean, I really like you, and I don’t want to give the impression it’s just about sex, but having you here, and knowing sex is on the table, but we can’t do anything about it yet, it’s really distracting.”

“What’s that you said about sex on the table?” Bitty asked.

The next few days got even more hectic, what with settling on a design and actually making Claire’s cake. Bitty did his best to combine his favorite mermaid and hockey designs from Pinterest, which meant a large, rectangular cake to be the undersea rink, marble-iced in blue and green, with dark green royal icing lines made to look like kelp, two fondant mermaids with hockey sticks and a clamshell puck, and a fishing net draped over coral for a goal.

Bitty figured he’d have to make everything except the cake itself at least twice, which meant getting all the ingredients from the specialty baking store by Saturday morning and working all Saturday afternoon.

Breanna was willing to do the pickup of materials -- unflavored gelatin, glycerin and paste food coloring, more powdered sugar, moldable colored chocolate disks, meringue powder -- and drop-off of the cake for $50. “I know it should be more,” Bitty said when he called her. “But I’m not working now, and that’s on top of everything I have to buy. This is supposed to be a joint gift, so I could ask Jack to kick in, but he’s really paying for everything else. I guess I could ask one of my friends from Boston, but for them to drive all this way and I can’t even see them ...”

“Don’t worry about it, Bitty,” Breanna said. “I just want to see this cake when it’s done. It’s curbside pickup at the store and dropping off at the door. It’s not a big deal.”

“You could ask me to kick in for what?” Jack asked, toweling his hair off in the doorway from the corridor.

“It’s nothing,” Bitty said.

“No, or there would be nothing to kick in,” Jack said.

“I’m paying Breanna to get the cake supplies this morning and then she said she’d take it to Gabby on her lunch hour Monday.”

“How much?” Jack asked.

“Fifty. Which if you break it down to what she makes an hour is definitely underpaying her, and she’s doing some of it on her day off.”

“I’ll cover it,” Jack said.

“No, Jack,” Bitty said. “I’m living here rent-free, and you’re paying for all the groceries and everything I need to bake all this food I’ve been donating, and you bought all this equipment, and the mixer. I can’t keep asking you for stuff.”

“You didn’t ask,” Jack said. “I offered. And you would have been paid for that cake if I hadn’t said it should be a gift. You should let me pay for the stuff you’re buying, too. That way the materials and delivery can be my part and the work putting it together can be yours.”

“I still feel like I need to give Breanna something,” Bitty said, tucking his phone in his pocket. “Besides, I already Venmoed her the money.”

“Then it looks like she’s getting a hundred dollars,” Jack said.

“You don’t even have her Venmo account, I bet.”

“I don’t even know what Venmo is,” Jack said. “But I have cash and an envelope. Now how much do I owe you for the materials? And how does this Venmo thing work?”

Bitty spent all Saturday afternoon experimenting with fondant and moldable chocolate, then sat down to create a diagram for the top of the cake. Jack left the kitchen to him, but more than once he looked up to find Jack’s eyes on him, from the den where he was supposed to be reading or watching tape on the TV; from the dining room, where he ate the leftovers Bitty put out for lunch; from the dining room again, where he sat with his laptop reading business correspondence from his agent.

Bitty counted it as a win when Jack didn’t look away when Bitty looked back, even if he knew he was blushing as he did it.

Then there was a Sunday afternoon bake-along session with Alicia and Bob Zimmerman.

That got set up when Jack came home from camp and Friday and said, “Could you please text my mother? She wants you to teach her to make pie now.”

Alicia, it turned out, had been chirping Jack all day about the cookies, first saying she didn’t believe he made them, and then saying that even if he did, he never would have thought to send them to his mother without Bitty suggesting it.

“Mama did raise me right,” Bitty said when Jack explained.

“Anyway, she said if you could teach me, you could teach anyone, so she wanted you to teach her and Papa,” Jack said. “They’ll probably each make their own pie and argue over whose is better.”

“Are they always that competitive?”

“Yes.”

“And will they ambush me to ask my intentions?”

“No,” Jack said. “But only because it’s not an ambush if you’re already expecting it.”

Jack was home when they did the baking demo (“master class,” Alicia called it), so he watched from the safety of the dining room, chiming in from off-camera with his own advice, which Bitty found helpful. It had been so long since he was a beginner, he didn’t always remember what caused problems for them.

“You’re going to want to keep blending the flour and the fat together,” Bitty told the Zimmermanns. “For longer than you think you should.”

“You’ll feel like your arm is going to fall off,” Jack called. “That’s normal.”

“Only add enough water to make it moist,” Bitty continued. 

“Too much makes it stick like glue,” Jack said. “A little crumbly around the edges is better.”

“Jack’s learned from experience,” Bitty said.

“You boys have spent a lot of time together, one way or another, haven’t you?” Alicia said.

“Jack needed a lot of teaching,” Bitty said solemnly.

“But I achieved my goal,” Jack said.

“What, getting a cute blond to move in with you?” Bob said, before swearing as his bottom crust tore again.

“See, now that’s one way you get a soggy bottom,” Bitty said. 

Bob muttered something in French.

“What was that, Papa?” Jack called. “I couldn’t hear, and Bittle doesn’t understand Quebecois.”

“Never mind,” Bob said.

Bitty tried to stick to the subject at hand -- pie -- but found himself telling stories about growing up as a figure skater in Georgia and his time at Samwell while the pies baked.

“I really wish the team could have seen how far we could go this year,” he said. “Everyone discounted us because we weren’t the most physical and because of, well, me. But about halfway through we stopped surprising our opponents and we were still winning. I really miss those boys.”

“I’m sure you do,” Bob said. “Leaving a team is never easy, especially when it’s one that feels like family, and even more when you don’t get to go out on your own terms.”

At the end, with two good-looking pies in Montreal and one excellent-looking pie in Providence (though Bitty never would have said so out loud), Jack’s parents said their goodbyes with lots of promises to meet up whenever that became possible. Bob said they should skate together, and Alicia said she might be able to help him meet some Food Network people who were friends of friends.

“I think that means they like you, bud,” Jack said while Bitty cleaned the kitchen. “But it’s no wonder. I think I was half in love with you after watching that first video. Your voice was so soothing, and your hands were strong and sure — I was kind of mesmerized.”

“So that’s what does it for you?” Bitty said. “Weaving a lattice?”

“I don’t think the lattice is the important part,” Jack said. “It’s you. There’s something about you that’s fundamentally good, and you put some of that in everything you make — baked goods and videos, too. I wanted that goodness in my life.”

“Gracious, Jack, here I am trying to flirt with you, and there you are saying the most romantic things,” Bitty said. “You’re good too, you know. Not just good at hockey. Really, deep down, good. I think I might be the luckiest guy in the world here.”

After a few moments during which Bitty suspected both of them were composing themselves, Jack said, “It was fun to watch you bake again this weekend. I come home to all these baked goods all the time, but they’re done by the time I get here. I used to imagine what it would be like to bake with you.”

“Only a couple more days,” Bitty said, and he hatched a plan. 

Monday brought the final assembly and dispatch of the cake and a video chat with Mama, who oohed and aahed over the pictures Bitty had posted on Pinterest. She had been asking to see Jack’s apartment, too, and Bitty maybe sort of intentionally kept his mother talking about the family and the church ladies until Jack walked in, because if he had to teach Jack’s parents to make pie, Jack could at least wave to his mother from across the room.

Tuesday was another game night with Lardo and Shitty, this time playing Pictionary. Lardo and Shitty won mostly because everyone could tell what Lardo’s drawings were meant to be. No one mentioned that Tuesday night started day fourteen of Bitty living in Providence, and neither he nor Jack said anything about their negative test results for COVID-19 and everything else Mark had checked for.

Wednesday morning was weird. Jack had suggested, and Bitty agreed, to make it a normal morning, at least for them, both because Bitty’s fourteen days would technically not be up until about 5 p.m. and because they both knew Jack wouldn’t make it to camp on time otherwise.

As soon as Jack left, Bitty tried to forget what the evening would bring. If he thought about it, he’d think about nothing else, so he just texted Lardo a quick, _Wish me luck today,_ and got started on the plans he had made.

He baked a few batches of cookies to send to the Ronald McDonald House, then he took his time tidying the condo. He even put his video equipment away (that was to say, in a pile in the corner) in the guest room, and checked that Jack’s laptop was on the desk and plugged in. 

When he folded laundry, he thought about taking Jack’s into his room to put it away, but that was a threshold he hadn’t yet crossed. He left the folded T-shirts and boxer briefs in a basket on top of the dryer.

Finally, in the afternoon, he did his workout and showered.

Once he was dressed again in his short sleep shorts and a new Zimmermann Falconers shirsey (which he’d had to order from Amazon to keep it a surprise), he pulled out the ingredients for a maple-apple pie and started peeling apples.


	12. Chapter 12

If Jack was in a hurry to leave the training facility, he tried not to show it. Surely his teammates had not been counting the days since Bittle arrived the same way he had.

But when he left the locker room, Thirdy grinned and said, “Have a good night, Jack. Not that you need me to say that.”

Tater looked confused until Poots -- Poots, of all people -- pulled Tater aside and whispered in his ear.

“Oohhhhh,” Tater said. “So Jack and Little B --”

Tater looked back at Jack. “I know you’ll be good to B, right?”

“Uh, right?” Jack said. “Of course. But aren’t you supposed to be my friend? Shouldn’t you be warning him?”

“He doesn’t have so many friends here,” Tater said. “I’m your friend and his friend, too. Maybe I should also warn him?”

“It’s fine,” Jack said, going to take his place in the corridor to wait for his COVID-19 test. Marty came and stood on the tape mark six feet behind him.

“Today’s the day, right?” Marty said. “You going to sweep Bitty off his feet? Because I gotta tell you, after that cake, Gabby and the girls want to keep him around forever. That was amazing, and Gabby plans to write a thank-you note, but until that happens, know that the cake was a hit and we really appreciate it.”

“Bittle worked really hard on it,” Jack said. “I just bought ingredients and paid -- or helped pay -- the courier. But I think Bittle enjoyed making it, so tell Gabby thanks for thinking of him.”

“Why do you think she has all the good ideas?”

“Because she does?”

Marty gave him a fake glare.

“So you thought of asking Bittle for the cake?” Jack asked.

“No, but you shouldn’t make assumptions like that,” Marty said.

Finally Mark was tickling Jack’s brain with the long swab and he was free to go.

It was in the car on the way home that he started to doubt himself. He had no flowers, no gifts, no real dinner plans besides ordering something to be delivered. He wanted to hold Bittle, to touch him in so many ways: to hold his hand, to stroke his hair, to put his arms around him. He wanted to kiss him -- on the mouth, sure, but also on that crinkle he got between his eyebrows when he concentrated, and the side of his neck and the tip of his nose.

Maybe Bittle wouldn’t mind Jack picking him up, literally sweeping him off his feet, but Jack wasn’t sure how to begin.

Bittle would know. Or if he didn’t know exactly, he’d help Jack figure it out.

Jack opened the door to the condo, and thought, but did not say, “Hi, honey, I’m home.” He was getting used to coming home to Bittle, with this strange sort of domesticity.

He saw Bittle in the kitchen, standing with his back to the door, the hem of his shorts almost hidden by his shirt -- a shirt that said “Zimmermann” and “1” on it. Bittle turned at the sound of the door closing, an apple in his hand, the peel spiralling down. For once, his face was not covered with a mask

“Just in time to miss the boring part,” Bittle said. “This is the last apple. Wash up and help me with this pie.”

“The shirt -- I could have gotten that for you,” Jack said, pulling off his mask and thrusting it into his pocket before heading for the kitchen sink.

“Then it wouldn’t have been a surprise,” Bittle said. “Do you like it? I thought maybe I was being presumptuous, but I _am_ a fan, so …”

“I love it,” Jack said, drying his hands and coming to stand next to Bittle, who was putting the dry ingredients for pie crust into a bowl. He pushed blocks of butter and shortening toward Jack.

“Can you cube those?” Bittle said, maybe a little shy. “I thought we could rub the flour into the fat by hand.”

They stood side by side, fingers brushing and tangling as they prepared the pie crust.

It wasn’t like Bittle really needed any help from Jack when it came to making pie, but they were able to slice the apples in record time, and Bittle let Jack take a turn with the rolling pin. Bittle stood next to him, scattering extra flour on the counter, but really making excuses to graze Jack’s arm and bump his shoulder.

“You planned this,” Jack said, as Bittle reclaimed the rolling pin to fold the bottom crust around it and lay it in the pie plate.

“Of course I did,” Bittle said, looking up at Jack through his lashes and then biting his lip in a way that had to be intentional. “Can you put the filling in there while I roll out the top? You said the first thing you wanted to do was bake with me.”

“I meant that the first thing I thought of doing with you when we were getting to know each other was baking,” Jack said, arranging the apples evenly. “Besides, we’ve baked together online. We’ve played games together and eaten together.”

“Is this all right?” Bitty faltered a bit. “My other choice was to tackle you as soon as you came in the door.”

Jack wanted to take Bittle in his arms and kiss the worried look off his face, but Jack’s hands were covered with apple juice and spices, and Bittle’s were covered with flour.

“It’s perfect,” Jack said.”I think I’ll always want to bake with you. But tackling me would have been fine too.”

“Fair warning,” Bittle said. “I intend to tackle you as soon as this pie goes in the oven.”

“Only if I don’t tackle you first,” Jack said.

Jack got to watch the wonder that was Bittle weaving a lattice from right over his shoulders, his hands resting on Bittle’s hips, his thumbs under the hem of the T-shirt, idly rubbing the skin of Bittle’s lower back. Bittle’s fingers moved about twice the speed they did in his demonstration video on YouTube, and it was only a couple of minutes before he was crimping the edge. Even in a hurry, Bittle made a neater job of it than Jack ever had..

When Bittle picked up the finished pie to put it in the oven, he bumped squarely into Jack, who was moving in to clean the countertop.

“No checking in my kitchen, Mr. Zimmermann,” Bittle said, flicking a bit of flour in Jack’s face.

Warmth bloomed in Jack’s chest as he said, “ _Your_ kitchen?”

Bittle blushed even more furiously before he turned to put the pie in the oven and set the timer.

“For now, anyway,” he said, facing the oven.

“For as long as you want,” Jack said.

Bittle started washing the prep dishes while Jack finished cleaning the counter. Jack reached around Bittle to rinse his cloth, then put his other hand on the counter, effectively caging Bittle. He leaned down to whisper in his ear.

“Is this okay?”

Jack felt the shiver that went through Bittle’s body, and his nod.

Then Bittle twisted around to face Jack, and Jack couldn’t say whether he reached down or Bittle reached up. All he knew was that they were kissing, and his arms were around Bittle’s waist and Bittle’s arms were around his neck and it was heavenly.

The kiss broke, and Jack breathed “Bitt --”

“If you call me Bittle after kissing me like that, I’m not sure when I’ll be able to kiss you again,” Bittle -- Bitty -- huffed. 

“Bitty,” Jack said. “But you don’t really mean that, do you?”

“Guess we never have to find out,” Bitty said, reaching up and pulling Jack’s head down for another kiss.

This time, Jack let his hands roam, cupping Bitty’s jaw, running down his back, finding a ticklish spot just below his ribs. Jack spread his palms out against Bitty’s ass, marveling at the way his hands nearly covered it.

Jack leaned down a little further, nipped Bitty’s ear lightly and pulled Bitty closer while he whispered, “Up.”

Bitty jumped and Jack lifted and Bitty wrapped his legs around Jack’s waist. 

Jack was about to head to his bedroom, but Bitty said, “Wait. The timer’s gonna go off in a few minutes. We have to take the collars off the edges of the pie.”

“The pie,” Jack groaned. “Of course the pie.” 

But he set Bitty on the counter, and at least the angle made it easier for him to kiss down Bitty’s neck, behind his ears and the hollow of his throat. His hands were still on Bitty’s legs, holding Bitty steady, but he’d worked his fingers inside those ridiculous shorts, against the sparse hair on Bitty’s thighs. The shorts weren’t doing much to hide Bitty’s erection.

That was okay -- more than okay -- with Jack, whose erection was rubbing against the inside of Bitty’s thigh every time Jack moved.

“You’re gonna make us wait until the pie is done, aren’t you?” Jack said.

Bitty, who by now was unbuttoning Jack’s shirt, said, “Well, I’m fairly certain that I could finish in the twenty minutes between taking the collars off and taking the pie out. But I’m an inexperienced 22-year-old, so I have an excuse to come really quickly. I’m not sure how that will work for you.”

“Yeah?” Jack said, now actively trying to pull down Bitty’s shorts while he was seated. “How long before you think you could go again? Because I’ve had fantasies about blowing you in this kitchen.”

“I don’t know,” Bitty said, pushing Jack’s shirt off his shoulders and rucking up his undershirt. “Let’s call it an experiment. After the pie collars come off.”

“The pie,” Jack grumbled, grabbing the oven mitts just as the timer went off. “Always the pie. Stay there.”

Jack opened the oven, made sure to stick his butt out when he bent over to pull the collars off, wiggling it a little when Bitty groaned,then closed the oven and set the timer again. 

Then he dropped the oven mitts on the floor in front of where Bitty was sitting. “Stand just there,” Jack said, helping Bitty off the counter.

Jack dropped to his knees, using the mitts as padding, and worked Bitty’s shorts down his legs.

Bitty smelled of apples and sugar, but he tasted salty and tangy and like something that was uniquely him. Jack took him in and worked at him steadily. He wanted to take his time, tease Bitty and make him squirm, but he wanted to make sure Bitty finished before the pie came out.

Later -- not that much later, really, just long enough for the pie to come out of the oven -- Jack learned that Bitty was eager to give as good as he got, only this time they were on Jack’s big bed.

“This has to be more comfortable than the floor,” Bitty had said, still wearing Jack’s name on his back while he knelt between Jack’s legs and nosed at his groin.

“Not a competition,” Jack said. “Besides, now I get to imagine doing that every time I see you in the kitchen.”

Then Jack didn’t speak for a while. Bitty might not have known what he was doing, but he was a quick learner, sucking and licking and then sucking again.

Jack might have thought he came embarrassingly quickly, but who could blame him after two weeks of foreplay?

When Bitty pulled off, he hovered above Jack for a moment on his hands and knees, like he wasn’t sure where to go.

“C’mere,” Jack said, reaching for him. Bitty let himself collapse gently on top of Jack, his head level with Jack’s neck.

He made for a comfortable weight on Jack’s torso. Except --

“Bitty, you’re poking me,” Jack said, trying to adjust so Bitty’s erection wasn’t actually trying to bore a hole in Jack’s hip. “That can’t be comfortable.”

Jack reached down and adjusted Bitty so his dick was pointed straight up and it nestled between them.

“Better?” Jack said, using his hands on Bitty’s assto encourage him to move.

“Much,” Bitty said, falling into a lazy kind of rhythm. By the time it became more urgent, Jack’s energy was returning, so he rolled Bitty to the side, reached into the night table drawer for some lube, and took him in hand. He also took the opportunity to look at Bitty, now (finally) naked, and appreciate the gift that the universe had bestowed on him.

“You’re beautiful,” Jack breathed as Bitty came for the second time in about an hour.

“Remember when you said I might not like sex with you?” Bitty said. “I really don’t think that’s gonna be a problem.”

In the afterglow, Bitty curled up against Jack’s side. They both dozed before showering together with an easy intimacy that Jack wouldn’t have dared to hope for. 

“Dinner?” Bitty said. “I can make --”

“Leftovers,” Jack said. “There are plenty of leftovers. And pie.”

Jack smiled when he set his plate right next to Bitty’s on the table. He had no intention of keeping his hands to himself.

Bitty turned serious though, and said, “Now will you believe me if I say I want to come with you? If you play?”

“Yes,” Jack said. “Even if I think we probably shouldn’t play. I’ll go if the team goes. I might think you’re crazy for wanting to go, but I believe you. I might be biased by how much I want you there, though.”

“Hush, you,” Bitty said. “You’re gonna give me a big head.”

“Already?” Jack said.

“Haha,” “Bitty said. Then he looked down. “But yes.”

Bitty scooped up some pie filling with his finger and popped it into his mouth, clearly trying to make sure Jack was in the same state. The joke was on him, Jack had been half-hard since they got out of the shower.

“I just want to actually spend time with my boyfriend,” Bitty said. Then he froze.”Wait, should I have said that? I mean, I definitely think of you as my boyfriend, but --” “Bitty, we live together,” Jack said. “I think that ship has sailed. Maybe I should have gotten you some sort of token to memorialize the occasion, but --”

“Mixer, Jack,” Bitty said. “You bought me a mixer.”

“Which will be sitting here all lonely the whole time we’re gone,” Jack said. “You know you won’t be able to make anything for however long it takes.” 

“We are making something,” Bitty said. “Us. Together. And we can make it good.”


End file.
